


Days in the Sun

by seagullandcroissant



Series: Days in the Sun [1]
Category: Trollhunters (Cartoon)
Genre: Angst, Days in the Sun Au, Family Feels, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I'll Tag Each Chapter Accordingly, Other, Screams into The Void of my mind and imagination, Team as Family, Trollhunter!Otto AU, Why Am I Writing Another Fanfiction, trollhunters au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2019-05-16 09:10:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 31,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14808431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seagullandcroissant/pseuds/seagullandcroissant
Summary: Otto Scaarbach considered himself to be a lot of things.A polymorph changeling? Absolutely.A servant to his Dark Underlord? Most Definitely.The next Trollhunter?Hm.He would have to think more on that one.Or, that one fanfiction where Otto Scaarbach finds the Amulet of Daylight and becomes the next Trollhunter.And boy, is it a glorious disaster.--Wished to be serenaded while reading this mess of an AU? A Days in the Sun AU playlist by ChaseAstar can be found on Playmoss at https://playmoss.com/en/chaseastar/playlist/long-live-the-sun





	1. A Prologue That Starts With Darkness and Drums

**Author's Note:**

> *** Chapter TW: Injury, Trauma, Mention of Death ***

**_Somewhere in Germany. 19XX. New Years Eve._ **

Breath hitching in his chest, the man woke to the sound of drums.

It had snapped him from his half-conscious daze. A banging sound. Wood against wood. Metal against metal. Aching, throbbing against his skull. 

Grumbling and rolling his sandpaper tongue, he managed to open an eye to look around him.   

There was no light in the cabin now. The trembling limbs of trees scraped noisily against windows and cast grotesque outlines lines onto the floor. Wind whistled through the various holes in the wooden walls, uprooting years old dust and dirt in its path. Then there was that damned sound of drums, a consistent noise coming from somewhere nearby.

Eyes shifting languidly in his skull, he observed the rest of the desolate lot. The fireplace was dead, spindly logs black and cold. The round, plain rug by his settee had been torn in half and, upon further inspection, he found his small bed and bookshelf had been thrown and overturned, downy feathers from his pillows fluttering across the floor. 

All in all, a complete and utter disaster.

With a single eye still open, it took the man a few moments to observe how strangely tall everything had gotten since he was unconscious.

It only took him a few moments more to realize that the growth was not miraculous and he was simply laying flat on the floor.

Face pressed against the floorboards, the man was sprawled akimbo, arms and legs bent at odd, uncomfortable angles. The top of his head, he noted with a start, was facing the only entryway, the door to his cabin banging wildly on its rusted hinges.

_The sound. The drums._

Indeed, a wind rushed through the rectangular opening, swinging the door back and forward and ushering a small drift of fallen snow over the threshold.

Humming under his breath, he began to rise to close it.

The bit of movement, however, brought him down to his stomach again, gasping.

A sharp, fresh pain shot down his spine, followed by the stinging sensation of reopened wounds.

The man screamed into his clenched fist, exposed back burning with the chill wind through the door. He shivered violently at his lack of shirt, hand gracing over a torn and bloodied remnant of his dark winter coat.

He had to close the door. He had to.

But the man found he simply couldn’t move, a gurgling whimper filling his mouth as his limbs protested to push him up to stand.

It was too much. Too much.

And, shaking, he laid his head down once again, his sweat lined brow sticking heavily to cold floorboard.

The man stared into the darkness and sighed.

He knew it would come for him eventually, that creeping figure of Death.

He had expected it sooner, really. Out on a mission, in the middle of crossfire, by the bare hands of another.

Late in the game for a man of his occupation.

He had been lucky.

He mused over the past months as a few flakes landed in his salt and pepper hair.

_Of all places in the world and all things I could’ve died from, this is a bit pathetic._

Hypothermia. Trauma. Sheer stupidity.

Closing his eyes, he waited for the end to come, for the slow approach of a hooded form to sweep him off the ground and carry him out that pounding door.

Then, as quickly as it started, it all stopped.

The wind. The banging. The painful chill in his spine.

A presence made itself known in the house, feet brushing across the creaking floorboards, creeping closer.

He inwardly groaned, body shifting in a hopeless attempt to rise.

_Not him._

_Not again._

A voice, silky and warm, spoke his name. A hand pressed firmly on his shoulder, managing to push him back down at the slightest touch.

The man expected the worst — for teeth and claws to bite and tear at his exposed, vulnerable flesh.

It never came.

Instead, he was surprised to find a pair of gentle hands tracing the wounds on his spine, feeling along the piercing gashes that tore through his coat and back. He flinched under the touch and the voice spoke to him again, tone suddenly urgent. The man strained to hear it as his body grew heavier against the dusty floorboards, ears stuffing with freshly picked cotton.

And like many things on that lonely winter night, he found that this was quickly falling beyond his control.

He was sinking into that darkness and away from the desolate cabin, the biting cold, and the hands pressing against his wounds. 

And for the first time in his fading life, he willingly fell in.


	2. The Chapter Which Otto Christens His New Human Home by Killing a Cockroach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Mention of death ( bug death )

**_ Chapter 1: The Chapter Which Otto Christens His New Human Home by Killing a Cockroach _ **

_I have to drown it._

The impulsive thought ran through his head and he considered it immensely.

_I have to drown it._

He swallowed, hand reaching for the faucet till his fingers found surface.

He gripped it, knuckles growing white.

The creature hadn't noted his presence and he stared, heart hammering.

Twitching its antennae, it scurried up the side of the sink and towards his arm and, with a startled noise, he twisted the faucet open, water shooting wildly into the metal bowl.

Otto Scaarbach watched as the cockroach was washed away in the sudden spout of water, the force pushing it around and around and finally down the wide drain.

 Once he was sure that it wasn't going to come back anytime soon, Otto twisted the knob to off, the leaky faucet continuing its mundane drip.

"Such vermin." He muttered, shuttering where he stood. After a moment or two, however, the man remembered what he was doing originally, plate and hands dripping wet as he searched for his dropped towel.

Standing in the kitchen of his new human home, Otto had to admit that it certainly was a good find. A simple house in a simple neighborhood with simple, stupid people.

His favorite.

He dried the chipped sky-blue plate with a few swipes of the towel, looking at the shining disc before returning it to its place in the bleached white upper cabinet, sighing.

Turning away from the sink, the man walked out of his kitchen and slipped past a few unopened boxes, uprooting fallen packing peanuts with his sock covered feet.

He sighed through his nostrils at the fluttering visual reminders. Most of the boxes were still closed, simply untouched since he’d arrived a few days before. And between his time fighting his jet lag and getting the spotty internet to work so he could check his progress on the packages, Otto had only been able to unload the bare minimum. A couch, a table and chairs, and his bed and bookshelf upstairs, of course.

Luckily, everything that hadn’t been unpacked didn’t even fill up the dining room off the kitchen, fingers grazing the tablecloth of that covered his small dining table as he passed.

 _Perhaps after my shift,_ He mused, gliding around the small futon in the living room, _if I make it back in time, that is._

Slipping on his wingtip shoes and fishing for his house keys in the glass bowl by the door, Otto Scaarbach paused to observe himself in the hanging mirror across the entryway.

The reflection was always the same. A no-nonsense man: dark hair cropped close to his head, longer locks swept back on top. He smoothed his growing facial hair with his hand, a pencil mustache, sideburns, and a soul patch resting on his rounded chin. His blue eyes narrowed at the small streaks of grey, simple signs of age even a polymorph changeling couldn’t escape from. He adjusted his falling round glasses and slipped on his dark black coat, smoothing any wrinkle or fuzz he may have had.

Crisp, clean, precise perfection.

This was the life of Otto Scaarbach.

Finding the keys, dawning his fedora, and collecting the briefcase waiting by the door, he stepped out of his house and into the waking rays, locking his door as the morning sun just began to peak over the horizon. Sighing, he looked over it, that burning round orb that brought so much life and light, a sharp warmth hitting Otto’s body as he watched those rays dance across the asphalt and heat up the day. He outstretched a hand from underneath the porch and felt the rays land on his palm, a tingling sensation coming with the heat.

Soon, this whole town would feel it too.

He smiled.

Oh, how he couldn't wait to see it all burn.

* * *

Otto Scaarbach had always been a fan of long walks.

Step by step, minute by passing minute, he enjoyed the feeling of fog from the early morning lift from his head, clear his senses and his mind.

He watched the day’s rays beam across the bridge and the few passing cars as he walked, dark shoes shuffling against the sidewalk.

Turning his head slightly, he blinked the sun out of his eyes, hand raised.

Well, maybe he could’ve skipped this morning’s walk to downtown. It was unusually bright for a sleepy Thursday in Arcadia Oaks, and, tugging at his collar, had to admit it was a bit warmer than the forecast he’d read. Not to mention, the destination he had in mind was a bit farther downtown than he had anticipated.

Walking closer to the black guardrail, Otto took a moment for a short breather. He set the briefcase he held tightly to his side onto the warming sidewalk, wiping a brow with the back of his sleeve.

 “ _Ja_.” Otto muttered, voice hissing, “Not today.”

 Still muttering, he took a few steps away to remove his fedora from his head, shimmying out of his outermost layer of clothes and draping them over his arm. Fanning his beet face with a hat, he thought he heard the noise of tires and brakes from behind and quickly folding his coat, he advanced back to the guardrail and leaned over the side.

His glasses slipped down his nose, eyes widening upon the sight.

_Children._

There were children were standing over the corpse of a troll.

For a moment, Otto thought the two kids had killed the poor bastard. The troll was completely smashed to bits, only a jagged pile of pebbles, rubbles, and dust remaining.

But, after seeing their only possible weapon to be their bicycles, Otto allowed his assumption of troll and possibly changeling-hunting children to drop.

Even still, they had wandered close. Much too close, he could see, as the small toe of the larger child kicked what was left of a curving horn.

“Hey!” Otto shouted hoarsely, voice echoing into the ravine and into the depths of the bridge.

Otto Scaarbach regretted his decision to open his mouth when the pair of young faces looked up, smiles blinding.

He feigned a small smile in return, edge of his mouth twitching.

 Of _course!_

Of _course_ it had to be _them_!

_Verdammt noch mal!_

The children standing in the dry canal were the same pair of boys that lived next and across the street from his own home -- both in two story houses a bit too close for comfort. Otto remembered digging through the taller one’s bin for a spare scrap of sock the other night. He’d almost been caught then, but, was later relieved to hear the pair on their early morning bike rides to passing it off as racoons again. 

Staring, Otto tried to remember what their names even were. There had been little to no interaction between them, the last one only a day or so before, where the tallest--Jimmy? John? -- had brought him a homemade apple pie with his companion-- what was it? Tubby? Toshi?

_Whatever._

He’d taken the welcome-to-the-neighborhood pie with a thin tight smile, shutting the door in their face to prompt them to leave.

Bit unorthodox in practice, he knew.

Even so, it didn’t faze them a bit and Otto had watched them through the blinds as they ran back across the street to toss some water balloons that -- Josh? Jimothy? -- had set up in his unkempt yard.

In the end, it had seemed that their interaction hadn’t made the slightest bad impression at all, the pair giving smiles as they waved excitedly from below.

“He-ey!” The shorter one shouted, hopping slightly, “You’re the guy!”

“The guy?” The taller one - _Jim,_ that was it - questioned with a raised eyebrow.

“You know, Jimbo!” the boy exclaimed, taking his arm, “You know!”

“I, uh, can’t at the moment, Tobes.” Jim chuckled, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and looking up towards Otto again. By the way the bags settled heavily under the boy’s eyes, Otto could tell the boy was tired beyond belief. Of course, he wouldn’t recognize him.

Resisting an eye roll, Otto managed to separate a hand from the guardrail, twisting his wrist,

“Bah. I’m your new neighbor. In the house right next to you?”

Realization flooded the boys features and he smiled wider, matching the squat boy’s -- now known as Tobes, maybe Toby? -- intense smile.

“Oh! Yeah! Hello there, Mr…?” He trailed off, and Otto resisted another urge to roll his eyes.

“Scaarbach.” He said, keeping his voice monotone as he could, “Otto Scaarbach.”

“Nice to see you again! I --.”

The sudden sharp sound of a warning bell snapped the pairs heads towards downtown, mouths opening in alarm.

“Jimbo!” Toby called as he struggled up on his bike again, taking off, “Come on! We’re gonna’ be late!”

Watching as his friend pedaled away, Jim offered a nervous chuckle and curt wave goodbye as he followed suit, up the canal and into downtown.

The changeling had to catch himself from sagging in relief over the side as he watched the pair bike wildly out of sight.

Not exactly how he wanted to start off the day. Especially today. Keeping simple fleshbag interaction was a chore.

 _But_ , Otto mused, as he stooped to pick up his suitcase, _I’ll have to get used to it for a while. Unfortunately._

As he pushed himself off the dark railing, he spotted something from the corner of his vision.

A glint in the sun from a passing car, he assumed, stalking stiffly forward, mood soured.

Again, there was a soft glint.

Another car.

He rubbed his face, the fog from his head had not fully dissipated, but, the sound of another warning bell urged him to walk faster.

And, muttering a curse under his breath, he hurried off towards the source, as, unseen by man or troll, the glint brightened underneath the pile of inexplicable rubble.

Beckoning.

* * *

 “Excuse me!”

Otto nearly jumped out of his skin, fumbling to catch his briefcase as a small body was advancing from behind, coming closer. 

He pulled forward his elbow, allowing the small fleshbag to pass in a nervous jitter of rushing to class. There was an equally nervous “Sorry!” as he disappeared, opening a distant door and scurrying inside.

He hadn’t seen why the small boy couldn’t just go around him on the other side, there was plenty of room. But, looking after him, came to see his rush, and huffing, realized he couldn’t complain.

He was in a rush himself.

Arcadia Oaks High’s Hallways were mostly empty now, the sound of laughing and chatting students spilling from underneath closed doors and into the hallways. Otto Scaarbach picked his way towards his own classroom, a small door in the back, painters tape over the former teachers name tag to replace it with his own.

Mr. Scaryback. It read.

_“Wunderbar.”_

Twisting the round knob, Otto Scaarbach entered the room with ease, the handful of students of his class already sitting down and talking amongst themselves.

They hadn’t noted his presence till he slammed the door shut, all laughing and chattering coming an abrupt halt.

Otto, placing his coat and hat on an old coat rack, made his way over to his desk in from of the room. Dozens of pairs of eyes watching in whispering anticipation.

Adjusting his tie, he leaned on the desk, staring into the crowd.

“ _Hallo_.” Otto greeted, pulling his lips into a semblance of a warm smile, “I am your new teacher, Mr. Scaarbach.”

There was a soft muttering of hellos as he stared over the teenagers -- a few of them faces he’d spotted in his drive downtown before.

He turned and wrote his name on the board behind him, students flinching as the chalk grated and screeched against the blackboard. Otto resisted the urge to smile at their discomfort as he turned back to them and picked up the yardstick resting on the ledge of the desk, holding firmly it in his hands.

 “I’ll be taking Miss Ann’s place after her sudden leave.” He explained, coming around the desk “As I understand, she left you a reading assignment?”

“Yes, sir!” a small, rather squeaky child called excitedly from the back. Upon further inspection, he saw it was the same kid that had nearly plowed into him minutes before.

Adjusting his taped together glasses, he smiled wide as he held out his copy of the book. “She did!”

A series of groans and snickers rose up at the boys unbridled excitement, a tall and very blonde boy whispering behind his hand in the front before laughing loudly.

The noise was silenced by the ruler smacking firmly against his desk, and the students fell back into their seats, staring.

Otto’s disapproving look changed into something a bit softer as he walked over to the teen, reaching for the offered book and flipping it to observe the cover.

_Beowulf._

He quietly sighed.

“Right.”

Running a thumb briefly over the sticky tabs in the pages, Otto wasted no time to toss it back to the boy and return to his desk, adjusting his glasses.

“Turn to the opening lines of _Beowulf_ and read to page 20 for discussion.” He barked, the kids digging inside their bags for their own copy of the book, “And no talking.”

There was a small, shared groan amongst them but, soon enough, the class began to quietly read to start their morning, settling down in their seats and filtering through the pages.

Otto, sitting down and pulling out his laptop from his case, looked over his glasses. Upon finding the pair he was seeking sitting in the back, sharing a worn book, reading softly to each other, he couldn’t help but harden his eyes.

Of course, it wasn’t going to be that easy to get away from them.

His neighbors were a pair of curious things.

A pair of dangerous things, more like.

That morning had been almost too close. Although it was exhausting to as so much _talk_ to them, he was glad he’d distracted them from picking up any recognizablebody parts.

Pale Lady forbid if they had found an arm or a leg.

Otto stared back at his laptop, towards the open email, and began to type furiously, the phantom taste of apple pie and crunching tin filling his mouth.

Too much of curiosity would get them killed.

He sent the email with a press of his pinkie, folding his hands and breathing into them with half lidded eyes.

He just hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

* * *

Of all the things he dreaded that fine Thursday, this had to top it all.

Otto couldn’t bring himself to move -- to speak.

 _What will he even say?_ He pondered, standing in the middle of Arcadia Oak’s hallway, hand hovering.

It had been a century since he’d seen his nestmate -- one of the two young changelings he had been raised with, sparred with, and, eventually, forced to separate from.

A test of loyalty. They had reasoned. Loyalty to Gunmar’s advisors and their orders always came first.

He swallowed, a burning sensation sliding down his throat as a rogue thought danced through his head.

 _Pale Lady,_ Otto mused, taking another step towards the large oak door, _It has been so long. Will he even remember me?_

_Was it possible to forget one’s own nestmate?_

In his step forward, his readied knuckles made accidental contact with the door, an early knock echoing in the wood. 

A muffled voice called from the other side.

Ready or not, there was no going back now.

Then, with a shaking hand, he twisted the knob to open up the door. 

It was a good-sized office, he could see as he walked in. Warm coffee walls with a warm coffee smell filled the entire space, built in shelves and wide-open windows that allowed sunlight to creep its way inside. There was the gurgling of hot water nearby, and, distracted, Otto turned towards the other half of the room, holding his briefcase closer to his side.

The other presence rose up from pouring his steaming hot mug, blinking.

“Otto?” he spoke, crisp and clear. 

Otto Scaarbach gave a small shrug and one of his nervous laughs, a brief smile playing on his lips.

Walter Strickler hadn’t aged a single day. True, there was a few more creases now, few more whitening hairs in his already salt and pepper hair. But, his face was the same, green eyes and sharp nose and an even sharper grin.

“Otto,” Strickler finally said, finishing pouring his cup, “I was expecting you.”

“You were?” Otto asked, tilting his head. He shut his eyes and rubbed his forehead, muttering. “ _Ich bin ein Idiot._ The email. This morning.”

A small laugh broke through Strickler's usually serious demeanor, wrinkles creasing around his eyes.

“It seems you’ve forgotten already.” 

Otto felt his face flush, rolling his eyes in a huff.

“Jetlag.” he excused himself, rolling a wrist and taking a few steps forward. “Don’t laugh at me.”

He looked back to Strickler and, after a moment, realized he was closer, leaning over his desk. Otto’s eyes shifted down to Strickler’s right outstretched hand.

He stared at it for a moment, before taking it in his own.

A professional, straightforward way to say hello after a full century of separation.

It was a little cold.

But, Strickler always had cold hands.

“It’s good to see you _Mein Freund_.” Otto managed through a small, nervous, smile. 

“Likewise,” Stickler stated, breaking it off after a few shakes, “Although, I never thought… a teacher?”

“Wasn’t a choice I made,” Otto clarified, as he sat down, in his chair on the side of his desk. “I’d rather be pulling teeth or teaching music but, it was the only option left.” 

“I’m sorry.”

“Ach! I will live.” His grin became crooked, “Besides, I believe at this rate, it is only temporary.”

Walter smiled in return, eyebrow creasing. A wicked look crossed his eyes as he raised the steaming cup of tea to his lips, drinking slowly.

“Indeed.” He hummed, licking the leftover taste of chai, “You’ve gotten them in without a hassle, I assume?”

“ _Ja._ Next box should come in tomorrow evening.”

 _“Good.”_ Strickler hummed, staring out the wide-open window.

Otto followed his Strickler’s gaze over to the groups of children in Arcadia Oak High’s grassy courtyard, eating their paper bag lunches, throwing a ball, taking a break from the stress and confinements of a classroom. In the mass, Otto caught who he was staring at -- one of the boys he’d seen just that morning, the taller one with the blue tug-over jacket. But, as quickly as he had been looking, he was back, attention drawn back to office, to the tea, to his company.

 He cleared his throat lightly before he stood once again.

“Well,” the history teacher began, wide knuckled hands coming together, “I believe I’ve had a small revelation.”

“ _Ja?_ ”

Strickler walked over to the water heater, lifting it from its hot plate.

“I never did ask if you wanted some tea.” 

Moments later, Otto held a cup close to his chest as they kept speaking, blowing on the steam between breaks for air. He stared at the warm drink as Strickler rattled, hands and voice and expression a gusto in a sudden rush of newfound air -- a few tales of the past 100 years resurfacing as they waited for the end of lunch bell.

Otto smiled as Strickler poured himself another cup, tangent after tangent flowing from his mouth about his students, the graded papers, the fellow teachers, anything he could think of. 

Blinking, Otto felt a small breath of amusement leave his chest as he listened, keeping his gaze at his companion and his creasing smile.

There were things he had missed.

He was glad old habits never changed.

* * *

 He was rushing now. Rapid wingtip shoes smacking against concrete as he hurried across the black, metal bridge.

He didn’t care how the heat as the sun beat heavily upon his head, as trickles of sweat made its way down his face. He was just anxious to get home. The final bell didn’t come fast enough and now the latest package would have been sitting on his doorstep for almost an hour now.

He frowned. 

He didn’t exactly think the whole scheduling through.

The good thing, however, is that he didn’t have to worry about any pesky teenager sticking their noses inside of it today. He’d watched his merry pair of neighbors take a stop at _Tiki’s Tacos_ after school, the familiar bikes in front of the store for an after-school pick-me-up. 

Otto blinked, looking over the side to take in the ravine. It was just as dry as it was this morning, the shining sun still filtering over the remains of a dead troll. 

He told himself to keep walking. To turn away and not concern himself with the body of a stranger.

But, staring at it, _really_ taking a moment to look closer, Otto slowed to a stop, blinking.

He leaned over the side, guardrail digging into his gut.

He’d seen this troll before.

But where?

From this distance, with just scattered pieces, it was impossible to tell.

Looking over his shoulder, he made sure no one was present as he made his way around and slid carefully down the embankment, holding his briefcase close as he landed with a small thud at the bottom.

He advanced the remains cautiously, as if the creature would come up and rip him to bits with his fists at any given second. It never came, of course, and he picked up a rather large piece of the former troll, observing it closer.

His knuckles grew white as he gripped the stone tighter.

He was holding the remains of Kanjugar.

_Kanjugar. The Trollhunter._

Or, what was left of him.

He dropped the stone back to the ground, circling the rubble.

It was strange. Seeing the former Trollhunter this close and without the chance of threat.

He kicked a chunk of knuckle when he saw it.

A soft, flashing light, filtering between the stones.

Otto’s breath hitched.

Dropping to his knees, he dug through the remains, tossing aside chunks of stone and dust till he found what he was looking for.

“The Amulet of Daylight.” He whispered, as it illuminated, bright and blue.

He grinned.

And it was _his_ for the taking.

With a hollering laugh, Otto Scaarbach leapt from his spot and held up the device towards the sun, the glowing disc obscuring its heavy rays. He observed the cool silver rim, the intricate clockwork of the magical instrument, the dials the rings and clicking gears when he pressed on the wheel with his fingers.

After all these years. Chasing.

Finally. 

He could _touch_ it.

It gave another bright, unexpected flash and Otto with a gasp, dropped it back to the rubble.

He blinked the sudden set of stars in his eyes and stared, mouth agape, as the dials spun.

A voice had come from within it. Something muffled.

He furrowed his eyebrows as he scooped it up again, scrutinizing.

Another muffled voice, a little louder now but, still incoherent.

He brought it closer, closer still.

But, before he could inspect any further, the sharp flash of light and the booming familiar sound of **_“Otto Scaarbach!”_** struck his ears. 

And, with a soft yelp of surprise, he fell back in an ungrateful heap, back aching on contact with the stony body of the former Trollhunter below.

* * *

He smelt the dark roast, swirling its sugar and cream with a twist of his wrist.

It hadn’t spoken to him since he’d gotten himself up from the bottom of the ravine. 

The damn thing continued to be silent as he put a pot on the counter, poured it, and stirred sugar and cream, staring at it all the while. It was still merrily glowing but, it was dimmer now.

  _Strange._ Was all Otto could muse, sipping his coffee, _Strange. Strange. Strange._

Only some knowledge of the Amulet was known to changelings and there was no way to tell in his position whether the information given was accurate or not. 

But, screaming his name so hard that it sent him falling backwards?

A bit unheard of. 

 _Very_ unheard of.

Unblinking, he poured the next cup of coffee into his _#2 Brother_ mug, not caring as the dark roast spilt and dripped on his recently cleaned counter.

Otto Scaarbach was caught between a rock and a hard place.

He knew he could tell Strickler or Nomura. Turn it in and act like nothing ever happened that afternoon. It was an accident. He just so happened to stumble upon it.

But, even still, it had spoken, _nien_ , it had screamed his name.

It wasn’t everyday an uncanny Amulet spoke to you.

He didn’t want to get rid of it just yet.

But, realizing it had eaten all his time as the grandfather clock in his living room chimed it was approaching 6, he knew he had to give it up eventually. But it was fun while it lasted. He enjoyed basking in the fact that he, _Otto Scaarbach,_ had found the Amulet of Daylight on his own.

He grinned, glancing at his watch.

He knew he’d never let Bular live it down.

Otto took another sip of his coffee before, quite suddenly, he felt his eyes widen.

His tongue had brushed against something cold and metallic.

Mug shaking, he forced himself to pull his lips away and stare into it.

It shattered into the floor with a hollow smash moments later, Otto’s back hitting the wall as he stared at the steaming hot mess, the Amulet  of Daylight spinning in the commotion.

Suddenly, being alone with the Amulet wasn’t fun anymore. 

He wasted no time in sliding across the wall and towards the old corded landline, eyes sweeping for the address book on the small hallway table. His heart hammered at the sudden blue flash and turned to find the Amulet now _sitting_ on top of the phonebook, clicking and blinking away.

Otto swiped it violently off the desk, grabbing the book and tugging it close as he reached for the phone. He flipped through the pages, dialing the digits as they came and pressed the receiver to his ear. 

Struggling, he unraveled himself from the curly cord and leaned impatiently on the wall, eyes not breaking contact from the infernal object now lying dormant on the ground.

“Pick up.” Otto muttered, glasses slipping down his nose, “Pick it up!”

It continued to ring, a droning sound filling his ears.

“Come on! Pick up the _damn-_.”

“Um? Hello?”

Otto swallowed, realizing that the phone had stopped in its tone seconds ago.

“Stickler.” Otto muttered, pressing himself further against the wall and twirling the chord with a finger, “Strickler. How fast can you and Nomura get here?”

 _“What?_ Why?” There was a pause, “Are you alright?”

 _“No!”_ Otto screamed, shaking the landline in his hands, “No! I’m not okay! I’m going crazy! I swear on Deya’s Grave I’m seeing and hearing… hearing…”

 He trailed off, hand shaking.

“Otto? _Hello?_ Are you there?”

The voice of Stickler struck him like a knife, reminding him of his predicament.

He had to act fast.

“Ah! Oh no!” Otto screamed, wringing the receiver in his hands, “Wait! Don’t come! There’s, uh, a roach! In my omelet! I’m gonna' be sick!”

He made a vomiting noise that he hoped was convincing, but, after a lengthy silence on the other end, Otto felt his face grow a pinkish hue.

“Otto. What the-!”

With a violent shove, he slammed the phone back into the receiver, a ring echoing through the hallow household.

Sliding down the wall, Otto gave a shaking sigh and, in a fist, pulled at his hair.

He couldn’t tell them. He came to the conclusions with a sudden jolt. He couldn’t tell anyone.

Bular would kill him.

If not Bular, one of his changeling colleagues, most definitely.

They killed Trollhunters: confronted them, fought them, laughed as they died between their hands.

He stared at the Amulet of Daylight across from him, eyes wide as the humming glow remained.

It would make sense. Calling the next Trollhunter by name. Shouting for the next champion to collect it.

He shook his head. No. That was absurd. _It was mockery._

Him? Second-in-command of the Janus Order? Changeling polymorph? A man of who was everything a Trollhunter stood against?

 _It’s broken._ Otto tried to reason, _There has to be a mistake._

Even so, staring at this object of immense power and magic, Otto feared it didn’t make mistakes.

 It had called for _him_. 

 _Otto Scaarbach, The Trollhunter._  

How utterly, utterly disastrous.

There was a large crash in the basement, breaking Otto out of his fretting stupor. 

Hands lowering from his face, he glanced at it, breath hitching. 

Seeing as he was home alone, it could only mean one thing. 

 _Strickler._ He fumed, _The bastard! He came anyways!_

Rising from his seat, Otto stared at the thin wooden door, the strange noises beckoning for him to go down and investigate.

Reaching into the nearest drawer, he armed himself with the first thing he laid his fingers around, snatching the cold-coffee soaked Amulet from of the floor and pocketing it.

And, pushing the glasses back up his nose, he gathered his courage and, slowly but surely, began his descent.

* * *

“Hello?” Otto called into the darkness. He flipped the switch again, but, no bulb flickered to life at the bottom. There was a shuffling of empty glass bottles as someone moved in the basement and Otto sighed. 

“Walter. I know you’re there.” Otto spoke as he descended the creaking stairwell, “Look. I can expl--.”

His voice was cut off by the bang against his furnace, door swinging loosely as a few burning coals fell out and singed the concrete floor. 

He advanced forward to pick them up but, froze when he saw movement to his right. His own reflection, he realized, after giving a graceless holler. A German curse hung on his lips but, was interrupted by a sound opposite and he turned.

A humanoid blur made its way behind the stack of dusting furniture and, in jostling the large stack, the mirror fell over, shattering. He took a few hurried steps back, Amulet humming in time with his rapidly beating heart.

Another blur hit the pipes, a low growl coming from behind the ceiling as they hissed, steam rolling from a busted bolt.

Otto’s body went ridged.

 _That wasn’t Walter._  

And, before he could turn to rush back up the stairs and lock up whatever had made its way into his basement, he ran into something rather hard, hands drawn up at the impact.

He held his breath as his fingers touched the leathery straps of suspenders and, turning his eyes up a blue chest, was met with six merry pairs of eyes, staring back. 

“Ah! Master Otto!” the troll shouted, four arms raised tusks and teeth baring in a smile. 

Instinctively, Otto jerked back, wielding his weapon he grabbed from upstairs. Holding it an arm’s length in front of him, he came to realize he’d only grabbed a salad tong -- the fork side -- and was wielding it like a knife. The sudden, unexpected draw of a weapon surprised the dull blue troll and, with a noise, took a step back himself. 

At this length he was able to observe the intruder. He was a pannoxi -- with six eyes and four arms to match. He sported a receding hairline, a wide crooked smile, and had all four limbs in an open gesture of hello.

However friendly he looked, however he’d known his name, Otto wouldn’t fall for it.

Yelling, Otto lunged forward with his weapon, but was stopped by a rather large tug on the collar of his button up, pulling him back and bringing him onto the ground.

He landed with a huff on his back, staring up at the the embarrassed face of yet another troll, now lowering his hand.

“Oops.” rumbled the hovering Goliath, “Sorry.” 

At the sight of the hairy brute, Otto screamed again, pulling himself up to his elbows and sliding over the concrete ground.

“Blinky. I think he’s scared.”

“Nonsense. I this must be a human custom. A greeting of some sort.”

The troll gave a rather loud shout in return, the open toothy maul causing Otto to scramble a bit faster, socked feet slipping against the concrete.

In his retreat, however, Otto Scaarbach failed to note the shards in close proximity and hissing, he pulled his hand up and away after he graced the edge of one, squeezing his palm shut over the thin line of crimson.

Cursing aloud, he forced himself to stand, pressing the slowly bleeding limb against his side. He glared at the pair, lip curled and a low snarl escaping his mouth. 

“Get _away!”_ Otto snapped, eyes narrowed, “Who the Hell are you? Step back! _”_

 Upon the sight and sound of Otto’s lowered pitch and raised voice, all movement forward ceased, the six eyes of the smaller troll shifting in a sudden epiphany.

“Oh dear! Where are my manners?” He chuckled, as he shook his head. He extended a lower arm to touch his companion’s side, the other becoming towards Otto, “Let us introduce ourselves! This is my dear companion, AAARRRGGHH!!!---.”  
  
“With three ‘r’s.”  
  
“Right.” Blinky smiled, “and I’m--.”

“I _don’t_ _care_ who you are!” Otto shouted, resisting the urge to tug out his hair as he leveled the utensil again, ““Stay back! Get away from me, _verdammt!_ ”

Standing, he continued his backing in the cramped basement. He found, however, he’d backed himself into a literal corner, his backside hitting the wall with a heavy thud.

“Surely,” the four-armed troll offered, extending a hand, “you must know we are here to greet our new Trollhunter?”

The rigid fork he held in his hands trembled. 

_“What?”_

_“_ You.”  AAARRRGGHH!!! Explained, extending one of his large fingers, “Trollhunter.”

 Blinky gave a warm shrug, “There you have it, from the wonderful voice of AAARRRGGHH!!!. Couldn’t have it any --.”

But, before he could finish, Otto threw the large fork in the trolls’ direction with another cry, leaping over a small box in an attempt to scramble around them both. In his hurried footsteps, he’d failed to see the outstretched palm of the larger troll and he directly close lined into it, the back of his head bouncing and hitting a large pipe extending from the floor behind him.

He groaned as stars exploded behind his eyes, pinpoints of light that weighed him down as he wobbled where he stood.

Then, Otto Scaarbach fell forward, nose and face and glasses slamming into the dank concrete of his basement floor. The entire room fell still.

“Hm.” a deeper voice spoke through his buzzing head, “Was this part of plan?” 

Otto felt himself being peeled off the ground, arms and legs and head rolling loosely in the air, glasses falling off his nose.

There was a hum from the other middle-aged troll, the pannoxi, and Otto felt the glasses being pressed back onto his face, his eyes already closed.

“Ah, well, not exactly.”

There was a pause.

“But, we’ll make it work.”

* * *

 Strickler was not pleased.

Not at all.

In the approaching evening, he could only stare at the remnants of the last Trollhunter, toe shifting the cracked stone pieces and rubble.

He shook his head and as he watched the last rays of sun disappear over the horizon and felt someone creep out from underneath the bridge, large footsteps and rumbling making his presence known. There was a huff of aggravation, hot breath slipping down the back of the changeling’s neck.

 _“Well?”_ A rumbling voice inquired as it climbed around the man, a clawed hand reaching for the rubble.

“Don’t bother to look.” Stickler growled, “You failed and let it get _away_.”

A deep growl sounded out before a fist struck the cement, cracking it.

“It doesn’t matter.” The hoarse voice hissed, “Whoever holds the Amulet of Merlin, I shall destroy him, just as I have done with every single one of them.”

There was a lengthy pause, the pacing troll and the changeling taking in the night as it fell, cool and soft and quiet as the next.

He stooped to pick up a bit of debris, a small twig, twisting it as he looked over the dark purple plane, smirking.

“The Amulet, it seems, has found a new champion.” Strickler chuckled, a sound that hummed deep in his throat.

The changeling’s eyes glanced over the hilt sticking out of the inside pocket of his jacket. A single sleek dagger, thin and sharp. The small smirk tugged at his lips, pulling it wider as his eyes began to glow in the rising moonlight. 

He snapped the twig he held in half.

He could already feel himself slipping the knife between their ribs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pannoxi, Blinky's spieces mentioned in this fanfic, is of Lusey's and more info on them are found here: https://trollhuntingdirectory.tumblr.com/post/170030066134/pannoxi-trolls-the-pannoxi-are-or-well-were-a


	3. The Chapter Which Otto Learns What's It's Like to Fall on His Ass. More Than Once.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> \- screaming seagull meme -
> 
> Take this chapter from me.

The door was open when he arrived.

He had rapped his knuckles against it, just enough force for the sound of bone against wood to echo throughout the house and push the door slightly open.

Blinking at the motion, Walter Strickler gripped the doorknob in a wiry hand, pushing it further to peek inside.

He hadn’t been in Otto’s new home. Sure, an address had been sent via a scrawled letter spelling out the street, the house description, and the new landline number. He simply hadn’t had the time to visit yet. Besides, he reasoned, Otto’s feet had been on Arcadia’s soil for less than a week. He had time to pay a visit and bring a housewarming gift before it became rudely belated.

He squinted sharply in the dim light of the foyer, the pale shape of a hallway table the only visible outline in the darkness. Cursing under his breath, the man stepped over the threshold, air stale.

Hands fumbling against the light grey wall, Strickler searched till his fingers found the switch to the hallway light, bulb flickering before coming to life. Strickler made his way deeper into the modest two-story house, gliding past the small settee in the living room and noting the flashing television -- the muffled sounds of a man cooing over a new blender coming from the squat device as he passed. His eyes flickered to the dining area outside of the kitchen as he entered the next room and, frowning, Strickler clicked his tongue at the sight of unpacked boxes, tape and staples still steadfast and strong.

“Otto…” he mumbled under an exhale as he twisted a nearby box labeled _Scheisse_ to face him.

Strange for his former nestmate to fall behind on anything. Otto was meticulous, precise, a damn perfectionist.

 _Surely._ Strickler mused, as he pulled his hand away and turned towards the kitchen door, _I would’ve thought he’d unpacked all his_ **_Scheisse_ ** _by now._

All of Strickler’s silent musings, however, came to a sharp halt when he felt something give way under his shoe. Starting, he stepped back, backside ramming into the edge of the swinging kitchen door as he stared at the source of the soft crunch.

Otto’s Christmas present from 1997. In pieces.

Strickler remembered that year.

It was a cold, harsh winter both in Arcadia and Germany. The best he could do was send a mug in the mail with a handwritten note tagged to its side. There was no visit.

Well, if he was being honest, it had been _another year_ without a visit _._ Even then, nearly a decade prior, it had been long overdue.

Scattered pen-written letters on holidays and bank days had to suffice for a century’s worth of their interaction.

The lines around the changeling’s mouth deepened as he stooped to pick up an edge of the mug between his fingers, a partial _B._

In the low moonlight, a sensation of cold fingers graced over Strickler's arm.

Something had spooked Otto.

The question was: What.

The sound of overturned bottles and shuffling caused Strickler to snap up and into place, eyes wide and glowing. He scanned the nearby area, stalking forward and sliding back into the main hall without a sound. The house held a deathly quietness, the heavy air broken by the muffled laugh track of the boxy T.V. He looked around a breath before his slitted eyes fell onto the adjacent basement door, creaks and groaning pipes echoing up from below.

Approaching the door, he risked a glance down the stairs, dark and dank as his own basement dwelling. He pulled the door open, heart leaping in his throat at the groan of protest. Even at the sudden, unexpected noise, no beast or human came rushing up the stairs to meet him. He knew the small disruption in the basement could’ve passed as racoons or another one of Arcadia’s bountiful vermin. Even still, Strickler reached for the thin knife in his breast pocket, drawing it from its sheath as he descended the small, rickety flight.

The basement was a cold chaos.

A dying furnace caused cold fingers to trace his spine, eyes searching the squat cramped space as he adjusted to the flickering light. There was a sign of struggle, he could see that much. Spilled boxes of the former owner’s soccer trophies made up a small corner of the space, pushed over by an age-old couch that had been shoved forcibly back against the wall. Gazing over the moth eaten and stained furniture, Strickler spotted an overturned mirror to his left, shattered upon its impact with the floor.

 _Seven years of bad luck._ He experimentally shifted a jagged shard with his toe, _Not exactly what we need right now._

Staring at the thin pieces of glass, Strickler sighed and took a breath to notice how the muffled voices from the living room had stopped. It was silent in the house now, and, eyes shifting slowly back to the ajar basement door, he listened to the stifled sounds of feet against worn hardwood.

Walter Strickler wasn’t alone anymore.

Standing on his toes, he ascended the rickety steps, hand gracing the handrail as he climbed.

A few feet away from the door, however, a lone step betrayed him, the squeak causing the man and extra pair of footsteps to freeze.

He held the knife tighter in his grip.

The footsteps came closer.

All at once, the door was violently jerked open, and, with a cry, Strickler threw his knife in one fluid motion, blade audibly whizzing through the air. He didn’t wait for it to hit its mark as he rushed up the stairs, bodily slamming into whoever was waiting at the top.

They went down in a tangle of arms and legs, Strickler pinning the blur with a thin, bony arm as his hands reached for another blade tucked away in his turtleneck. His teeth rattled as the stranger hit his jaw with the heel of their hand, and, seeing stars, was shoved off balance, his spare hand catching himself from collapsing against the floorboard, his other arm caught in a crushing grip. Albeit stunned, he didn’t stop, backhanding the attacker before rolling with them again, attempting to break from their vice like grip. In the end, after a few bites, punches, and a flash of changeling light, Strickler was the one who found himself pinned, a snarling grunt escaping as he struggled with the hands pressing against his throat. He attempted to move his right arm but, found it had been painfully pinned underneath him, pins and needles shooting through his fingers at the unexpected weight. His free hand clawed at the knee pressed against his sternum, the bony joint pressing against his green exposed chest. Horns digging into the aging floor, he turned his head, peering at the assailant through his tight, wrinkled nosed grimace.

“Nu-mora?” He choked, clawed hand wrapping around the woman’s thin wrist.

Still in her human guise, the changeling’s fiery eyes softened for a beat before narrowing again.

 _“Stricklander.”_ She spat in recognition, manicured grip around his neck ramming his horns against the wooden floor. “What are you doing here?”

“I wa-as going to as-sk you the same th-ing.” The changeling gasped between bursts of air.

She held the choking grip for a moment more before she reluctantly released him, the male changeling gasping at the free air. Clumsily, he made his way back to his feet and, leaning against the wall, blinked owlishly when his squarish nose graced the hilt of his blade buried into the sheetrock. He growled, yanking it out of the wall, and shrank back into his fleshbag appearance in a burst of green light.

Nomura huffed, fingers gracing her neck where Strickler’s knife had made a hairline cut.

“Scatterbrained.” She hissed, heels clicking against the floor as she waved her hand over her face, “You and Otto both.”

“Have you seen him?”

 _“No.”_ She shot back, picking up an earring that had been lost in the struggle

“You mean,” Strickler asked, rubbing his bruising neck as he followed her through the hallway, “he didn’t come tonight?”

“What the Hell did I just say?” She hissed, her purple lipstick lips curling into a snarl as she came to a sudden halt in the dining room.

Stiff, Strickler glared back, the pair catching each other in the crosshairs of their piercing, glowing eyes. Strickler, scoffing, looked away first, and Numora’s lips shifted into a semblance of a smile, content.

He bit back a laugh when she opened the kitchen door and jumped when her shoe further crushed the shattered mug. She stared at it for a moment, before gathering it with a hand and tossing it into the trashcan under the sink.

Strickler could only stare after her and watch Numora’s movements: cool, precise, and purposeful.

“So calm,” Strickler commented aloud, as Nomura roughly pushed past him in the doorway, leading them back into the dining area, then living room, “I’m surprised our nestmate’s absence didn’t raise a little alarm.”

Nomura only hummed, reaching into an open box Otto had left on the low coffee table. Strickler’s hand crept into his pocket again but, blinking, saw she was only lifting a beaten glamour mask out of one of the open boxes. She carefully brushed the clinging peanuts off the wooden surface, holding it up to the hanging light.

“His shoes are gone.”

Strickler blinked.

“What?”

Nomura, eyes sharp and cutting, observed Strickler’s expression and rolled her eyes.

With a manicured nail, she pointed towards the empty foyer and empty boot tray.

“His shoes. His wingtips.” She clarified, lifting the mask to her face. It flickered into the larger form of Otto and, with a false golden tooth grin, the form leaned heavily against the wall. The false Otto kicked his feet, the heels of Numora’s shoes breaking out from underneath his dark pant leg.

“You know him.” The voice of Nomura purred from Otto’s wide mouth, batting his eyelashes with a low chuckle, “He never leaves without his lucky wingtips.”

* * *

It took a moment to blink the buzzing stars out of his eyes when he first came to.

He was curled up on himself – the tingling, stinging feeling of rushing blood returning to his arms and legs. Otto blinked as he turned his head, his dark sideburns pressing against the sides of the bag. Feeling the edge with his fingertips, he chewed thoughtfully on the leather taste that lingered in his mouth.

_Hm... There weren’t bags in basements._

_There weren’t bags in basements._

Otto Scarbaach jerked awake, eyes wide and searching.

_There weren’t bags in basements!_

Gasping, his hands shot out to feel the sack pressed around him. Burlap, he concluded, an old potato sack by the looks of the backwards label against his face. Growling, he spit the strange leather taste that hung from his mouth. A wingtip shoe, Otto saw through a few blurry blinks, _his_ wingtip shoe, a hole gnawed through the leather by his golden canine. He absently reached for his face, inhaling sharply when he realized the lack of round glasses resting on the end of his nose.

The events of his fateful evening came rushing back all at once and, face growing hot, the man clenched the rough fabric of the bag in balled fists.

Otto Scarbaach screamed, slamming his sock covered heel into the upper part of the bag in a quick kick.

He thought he heard a muffled, “Huh?” and an urgent question to follow.

He didn’t care and he didn’t stop, twisting to slam a bare fist on the clenched opening of the sack.

 _Impossible,_ his mind reeled as he held his stinging knuckles with his other hand, _brute force won’t do anything._

“Hey!” Otto exclaimed, throwing his head back in a hoarse shout, “Hey! Let me go! _Hackfresse!_ ”

The small movement and sway to the sack stopped, muffled voices picking up around him.

There was more of them now, Otto realized as the stench of pure Trolls wafted through the bag and burned his nostrils.

He covered his nose with a sleeve, features wrinkling.

A den.

They had brought him to a den.

“Brutes! Open the bag!”

There was the sound of a clearing throat and the whispering voices hushed, warm, leathery bodies coming closer and closer still.

“AAARRRGGHH!!!, if you please.”

Otto Scarbaach’s gut twisted.

He couldn’t wait any more.

Slashing wildly with a half-formed claw, Otto felt the fabric of the bag give way from beneath him and he plummeted, a shout escaping his lips before he collided with the stony ground below. Even after a gigantic hand swiped over his head, another tugging at his ankles, begging him to wait, Otto scrambled away from the scene, kicking blindly as he went.

Gathered masses of all shapes and colors made a wide berth for the man, shouts and screams of shock and surprise and “Human! Feral Human!” ringing through the air as he passed. There were still stars in his eyes as he stumbled forward, hands reaching for the next thing to steady himself.

His insult-laced shouting parted them back enough, creating openings for him to blindly dart through. But, it wasn’t long before he felt the pair from his basement follow in close pursuit, their pleas for him to halt falling on deaf ears.

 _Pale Lady._ Otto’s mind buzzed, as his shoulder collided with another Troll, _where have they brought me?_

Otto rounded a corner and dove quickly between two passing trolls, and from the sounds that shortly followed, the pannoxi and krubera had collided with them and, biting off a victorious laugh, Otto shot around another corner and, pressing himself behind an empty cart, ducked out of sight.

Otto Scaarbach covered his panting mouth with a hand as the trolls passed, fingers throbbing as the fingernails of his digits shrank back into his human guise again.

That was close. Too close. And, to be quite frank, he hadn’t done something like that in ages. Half-forms and partial transformations weren’t his thing, even as a polymorph and, more than likely, left painful results.

The man took a moment to catch his breath, grimacing slightly as he held his throbbing hand close to his chest. He quietly cursed and, legs still shaking with pumping adrenaline, willed himself to calm and collect his running thoughts.

He’d been taken by a pannoxi and a krubera.

Kept in a bag.

Brought to a cave of trolls.

He winced at the distant sounds of trolls, voices loud and gravely.

 _What-?_ Otto reeled, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead, _What had they been planning to do with me?_

The thought, however, was quickly out of his buzzing head with a shiver.

He didn’t have time to ponder.

He had to find an exit. There had to be an opening nearby, something he could crawl out of and stumble back to his human house.

 _What then?_ Otto asked internally, hand tracing the stray strands of facial hair on his rounded features, _The pair will return -- with more._

Otto sighed, pushing himself slowly to his feet. He would have to figure it out as he went. Rushing along without a plan and escaping by the skin of his teeth -- _wunderbar_ and just how he liked it.

Brushing his sweaty mop of dark hair back, Otto turned, his hand upon the cart touching something foreign, yet familiar.

Two large shapes filled up his vision.

He’d been found.

Shouting, Otto stepped back quickly but, before he could slam into whatever crates were stacked behind him, his wrists were caught and, in a jerk, he was pulled forward and deeper into the abandoned stand. The man slammed against the stone wall in the back, knocking over a pile of assorted human toiletries with the momentum of the tug. Wrinkling his nose at the sensation of something wet and foreign against his toe, Otto opened his mouth to protest, only for a pair of matching right hands to silence him, pressing firmly against his mouth.

“I think you’ve made enough noise!” The blurry outline of the owner scolded, albeit loosely. “By Deya’s Grace and all that is holy, please, cease this horrible ruckus at once.”

Otto, huffing against the earthy palms, struggled against the grip. He dug his fingernails into earthy skin as his screams continued, muffled.  

_“I’ll be quiet when I’m dead!”_

“Here!” The voice hissed in a hush, pressing him harder against the wall, “Hush now! Here! Take them!”

Moments later, Otto felt something being roughly pressed onto his face and, after it was secured, the troll that had pinned him took several hasty steps back out of Otto’s personal bubble, holding up all four of his hands in surrender. As soon as he was released, Otto slid back onto his rump, the man’s hands shooting up to rip off whatever device they had panted onto his face.

 _“_ _Meine Brille...“_ Otto breathed in recognition once he opened his eyes fully again.

“Yes, they kept falling off so we decided to hold onto them … till now, at least.”

Vision clearing, he felt the dark frames with trembling fingers and quickly pushed them back up his nose.

Otto, however, felt his eyelids lower back into a half-lidded gaze at the sight of the pannoxi and krubera, Blinky and AAARRRGGHH!!!, as the pair waved in a slightly sheepish greeting.

 _“You.”_ Otto hissed, pushing himself back to his feet, “What do you two want? What am I-?”

“Do not be afraid, my friend.” Blinky reassured, holding out a hand, “We never meant any harm.”

“Never meant-?” Otto sputtered, cheeks growing pink, _“Never meant any harm?”_

Blinky gave another one of his wide smiles, tusk and fang exposed in the kind gesture.

“W-Why of course not! We could never harm our next Trollh-?”

 _“Don’t.”_ Otto hissed, spitting, “ _Don’t_ call me that.” He paused, curling a lip, “And that that is _not_ an excuse for shoving me _in a sack!”_

The smile the pannoxi held faltered a bit as an awkward hush fell upon the trio. Otto, still sore from his landing, rubbed a bruising shoulder, observing the two with glowering eyes.

It was true, he could see, and they didn’t seem particularly hostile. Partly clumsy, sometimes bashful.

It was a bit unexpected. Different to say the least.

“Well, despite our small … incident … I’m glad you are now awake Tro-, I mean, Master Otto.”  Blinky offered as he held out one of his hands, smile returning in an attempt to remain polite.

Hand pressing on his forehead, Otto boldly took a few steps forward.

“Let me guess,” Otto murmured, rubbing his throbbing temple, “breaking into my home and taking me against my will in a _potato sack_ was your plan of saying hello?”

“No!” AAARRRGGHH!!! explained, wincing as his horns tugged at the low hanging Christmas lights, “Not plan. Not at start.”

“Exactly, my friend.” Blinky nodded, holding up both right hands, “You hit your head quite hard in your human dwelling, so we decided it would be best if we brought you here. No use in leaving you alone in a dank basement.” He grinned wider, “Our original plan was more civil, believe us. We planned on talking and introducing ourselves and then, well, introducing you here in Trollmarket too. Alas...” the older troll trailed off, chuckling softly, as he looked over his shoulder, “Fate, it seems, plays out in curious ways.”

That word caused Otto’s blood to freeze.

The pair of older trolls were silent and observant as they watched the man’s eyes filter around in the cramped, small space, scrutinizing the glimpses of light in the patchy tarp.  

“Where…” Otto began, his pair of human eyes settling on the six looking expectantly at him, blinking excitedly. “Where did you say we were again?”

* * *

The view of Trollmarket by foot was better than crouching behind a booth any day, Otto had to admit.

Convinced he wasn’t going to run off wildly again anytime soon, the three acquaintances -- the krubera, the pannoxi, and the fleshbag -- made their way through Trollmarket’s streets, taking it all with wide, observant eyes. The air was a bit more relaxed between them now, and naturally, Blinky sprouted off about the markets, the booths, the trolls, even the history of Heartstone Trollmarket itself. Otto heard but failed to listen to his longwided lesson, bare feet shuffling against the cobblestone as he stared at the life around him.

He had only read of Heartstone Trollmarket’s beauty. It’s divine descriptions of halls, curving crystals, and fine architecture held nothing to the the sights and sounds and smells observed in the flesh. The main hub was buzzing with life, trolls of all species moseying around the market spaces and booths. They passed female troll at a small booth, cross stitching nonsensical patterns into cloth, another burlier troll sold oversized pints of glug, the green substance sloshing over the rim, and as they turned onto another street, Otto spotted a squat troll, grilling their finest choice of argyle socks over a homemade charcoal grill.

It didn’t take much to see that Heartstone Trollmarket was an everyday’s trolls paradise -- big, bustling, and beautiful.

 _Damn the limits of a fleshbag guise,_ Otto inwardly groaned as they passed by another heavenly concession lined with heated, still sizzling, trash.

“Stay close.” Blinky spoke, as they wandered deeper into the more crowded street, his rambling slowing to a stop as he placed a hand on Otto’s shoulder, “Human feet have never graced the ground of Trollmarket before.”

Otto Scarbaach jumped at the touch, staring at the smiling troll addressing him.

Right. Otto had nearly forgotten about the fleshbag situation.

 _“J-Ja?”_ Otto finally questioned, lips curling in a parody of a grin.

Blinky patted his shoulder, the elder troll’s eyes wide and genuine in his excitement.

“Yes! The sacred mantle has never been passed onto a human before. This is a historic occasion indeed.”

Otto lowly laughed, cheeks reddening a bit as a nervous chuckle escaped past his lips.

_Oh. If only you knew._

Content, they looked back to observing their surroundings, the smaller of the three beings managing to step out from between them. Otto froze when he found himself met with sidelong stares from nearby vendors and trolls, who stood a little taller at the sight of him.

“Human?”

 _“Friend.”_ AAARRRGGHH!!! growled in response, placing his bulk between Otto and the hissing stranger as they passed.

The goliath, with a gentle nose and push of his horns, encouraged Otto to continue his trek and, with a small glare over his shoulder, he fell in line with the trolls again, Blinkous continuing his jabbering with ease.

“Come now, Master Otto,” Blinky encouraged, taking him by the wrists, “There is much to see!”

“I can handle myself, _danke!_ ”

Alas, his complaint fell on deaf ears and Otto Scaarbach, briskly rolling his eyes, allowed himself to be dragged down Trollmarket’s winding roads, legs shuffling to keep up with Blinky’s wider strides. Upon the next history lesson, they passed up more concessions, stands, and beautiful archways of stone he could count.

They rounded the next corner and Blinky stepped out of his line of vision, allowing Otto to step forward from between him and AAARRRGGHH!!!.

Otto Scarbaach stepped forward, stare unwavering as he approached the edge of the market square, his small hands reaching and gripping the cobblestone railing and the end of the path. The man’s mouth opened in a voiceless question and the pair smiled, ear-to-ear, at his awestruck expression.

“Heartstone.”AAARRRGGHH!!! explained in rumbling hush.

“Yes. The life force of trollkind,” Blinky hummed, coming up and staring after Otto, “the means that keeps us from crumbling to stone and provides our light, here in Trollmarket.”

“It’s … _wunderbar_.” Otto breathed, hands gripping as he leaned against the wall further, closer to the gem.

Of the many things that had transpired that evening, this was the most pleasant.

It rose like a tower, that pillar of pure energy. Trollmarket’s Heartstone was a large one, larger than any he’d seen in his changeling lifetime. The warm, yellow-orange crystal gave off a radiating glow, illuminating the air in warm streaks of light. Otto felt an electric buzz linger and faintly pulse, like a heartbeat, rushing through his veins. It _was_ a heartbeat, _his_ heartbeat, Otto realised after listening closer, a rush of rejuvenated blood pounding in his ears.

It was powerful. Beautiful. A lifeforce and blood of an army.

A bead of sweat fell down the back of Otto’s neck.

His fingernails dug briefly into the stone.

Oh, how he wanted to touch it.

He heard and felt the all too familiar thrum of the Amulet from his back pocket and he pulled himself back in a jerk, willing his drumming heart to slow.

He was sure they could hear it, the pounding noise deep within his chest.

He was getting too excited. He had convinced them well enough. He relaxed his fingers, bit to the wick nails uncurling from the cobblestone.

There was no use in spoiling his guise so soon.

But, Otto, despite his lingering distain over everything, couldn’t help but crack a small grin.

Two things the organization had been searching for -- in one day!

Gunmar would be pleased. The luck of it all.

His hand fell over his trouser pocket, the smile on his lips faltering.

Well, perhaps there was one stroke of bad luck.

Dangerous bad luck.

But, Otto Scarbaach would make it work.

He always made it work.

“Fleshbag!”

A unfamiliar shout rung out from behind them and Otto, still loosely holding the carved ledge, turned, pushing his slipping glasses back up his nose. A small handful of trolls, including a few that had he’d passed earlier, had gathered behind them, frowns and scowls of disdain equally shared between them.

“What’s a _human_ doing here?” Another shouted.

“Yeah!” A stray voice exclaimed in a animalistic huff, “Humans! Strange!”

“Friends! Friends! Do not be alarmed!” Blinky spoke, stepping forward and between Otto and the advancing crowd, holding his hands out in an attempt to soothe the growing agitation.

But, despite his actions and reassurances, the questions and voices grew louder and pressed closer until a hunched form emerged, shoving a path for themselves towards the front.

 _“What is the meaning of this?!”_ They shouted, Otto’s view of the speaker blocked by the larger form of Blinky in his line of sight.

“Ah,” Blinky chuckled, nearly falling into Otto as he took a few hasty steps back, “I was just going to get to that-.”

“Human feet have never sullied to ground of Trollmarket before.” The voice hissed, before a massive fist shoved the historian roughly aside, “Who is this… _fleshbag_?”

Otto felt his skin break out his gooseflesh.

The towering troll before him needed no introduction. Draal, the Destroyer. Draal, the Deadly. Kanjugars heir. Here he was, standing face to face to the face he’d throw knives at in his small house in Germany. Face to face to the last troll he wanted to encounter - especially that night.

The brute gave a flare through his nostrils as he leaned in closer, hot glog-laced breath fogging up the edge of Otto’s glasses.

“Otto.” the man curtley responded, taking off and wiping his glasses with his shirt, “Otto Scaarbach. And, you are?”

“Draal the Destroyer,” the troll hissed back, leaning in closer, noses almost touching, “Draal the Deadly,” He added, clenching a fist.

“Hm.” was all that Otto replied, returning his glasses to his nose and crossing his arms in shared aggravation.

Lip curling, Draal directed his glare towards Blinky, the six-eyed historian being helped up by from his last shove by AAARRRGGHH!!!.

“W-Why have you brought this fleshbag here?” Draal slurred, a great blue finger pressing against Otto’s vulnerable chest.

“We were just getting to that, Draal.” Blinky explained, rushing forward and placing a pair of smaller, matching hands over his. He gave a wide toothy smile, “It seems our fleshbag friend, Master Otto, has been chosen as the new … Trollhunter?”

There was a collective gasp in the crowd and Otto’s eyes shifted around at the faces baring in, glaring over his spectacles.

Draals face twisted in a frown, tugging his hand away from Blinky’s grip.

_“Impossible!”_

“It is true.”

“He cannot be the Trollhunter! He’s not a troll!”

A large fist broke the ground at Otto’s feet and with an intake of breath, Otto stumbled back, caught from falling flat by the oversized hand of AAARRRGGHH!!! behind him.

“Amulet _chose_.” the krubera retorted, holding his stance steadfast.

Draal gave a mighty roar directly to the trolls stoic expression. Otto couldn’t help but flinch at the sound, wiping a stray strand of spit from his cheek with a curled lip.

“Show him.” AAARRRGGHH!!! encouraged, voice and face softening as he pushed Otto back onto his two feet again, the man stumbling forward to remain upright. He jerked and back to look up at the towering form of Draal. Wiping his wet hand on his trousers, Otto muttered a German curse as he dug in his pockets, hands feeling before producing the familiar object.

“Here.” Otto murmured, holding it out in a flat hand, “Your stupid Amulet.”

The Amulet of Daylight glowed bright when he produced it, the humming light keeping in time with Otto’s growing pulse. He felt the crowd take a collective step backwards before Draal stepped close again, face set in a permanent scowl.

“This doesn’t prove anything.” Draal snarled, “Speak the incantation.”

Otto felt his forehead line with sweat.

“The ... incantation?”

“Speak the incantation,” Draal parroted, smiling, “ _Trollhunter._ ”

Otto looked down at the Amulet, face illuminated by it’s glowing light.

He hadn’t stopped to look close upon the Amulet’s surface more than need be. Granted, he had held it, stared at it for a few hours in his human home but he had never seen the words of the incantation appear on the smooth metal surface.

Then again, he hadn’t had the courage to hold it close to his face after it had screamed his name.

Fingers shifting, Otto Scarbaach held it closer, blue eyes staring down at the Amulet’s humming, glowing surface. The Trollish letters on the edge of the Amulet shifted, from Changeling to English, before, finally, settling on German, the Amulet of Daylight giving a small, satisfied ping when it was finished in it’s translation.

And there it was. Clear as day.

 _“For the Glory of Merlin,”_ Otto read, albeit quietly, to himself, _“Daylight is Mine to Command.”_  

Daylight. _His_ to command.

If that wasn’t damning proof enough.

“Well?” the impatient voice of Draal spoke through his consciousness, “Speak it!”

“I-I just did.” Otto muttered, gaze unwavering from the Amulet, “What more do I-?”

There was nother shove, another scramble of legs to keep himself upright. Otto fell back this time, there were no hands to catch him, a slight “oof!” escaping his mouth as he fell. He watched as the Amulet fell out of his hand, clinking against the stone and coming to rest at his side. Draal laughed a bit at that, a glug-laced chuckle that encouraged the others around him to join in. The heavy noise hit Otto’s chest, his spare fingers curling around the Amulet as they laughed.

“You are no Trollhunter.” Draal spoke, “If I was a Gum-Gum, you are barely a worthy fleshbag to eat.”

Otto, fist clenching, shot back to his feet and stormed forward, inches from Draals wide face.

“I am just as capable as any troll, _danke!_ ”

Draal, staring at the squinting eyes of Otto behind his round spectacles, laughed even  louder, the guttural sound booming from his wide, open mouth. A few more of the trolls in the surrounding crowd joined in at the banter, and Otto resisted the urge to look over his shoulder to meet the sympathetic gazes of Blinky and AAARRRGGHH!!! searing into his back.

“A _fleshbag_ as the _Trollhunter_?”

Draal pressed a heavy hand on Otto’s left shoulder and the man cried out, the force and grip strong enough to bring him to his knee, grimacing.

Through his stinging eyes, Otto saw Draal’s satisfied grin, Blinky’s illegible shout drowned out by the fresh, pumping blood rushing in Otto’s ears.

“Please.” Kanjuagar’s hier hissed, hot breath and spit spraying Otto’s face, “That is worse than if any Impure filth took up the amulet.”

The curved edge of the Amulet dug into Otto’s palm.

“W-What?”  
  
“You heard me.” Draal spoke low, amber eyes boring into him as he spoke low enough for them to hear, “You’re worse than Impure _filth_.”

That was it.

Before he could stop himself, Otto’s mouth erupted in a German shout, the man swinging his arm around in a curled, clenched fist. A flash of blue light erupted from his hand as he came into contact with his target, the sound of metal against stone ringing out in Trollmarket’s open square.

Blinking the blinding light from his vision, he stared after Kanjuguar’s heir, who had fallen back a few steps and landed on his knees in a unceremonious heap. Otto glared after Draal as the troll held a bleeding nose, the blue-blackish blood seeping between his wide fingers. For the upteeth time, Otto felt the eyes of several beings upon him, and, panting out of his mouth, risked a glance down at his hand.

The Amulet was gone, replaced by an armored fist with a silver suit of armor to match. It covered every inch of his exposed flesh, a lightweight silver metal with dark and fitting chainmail that hummed with pumping, magical adrenaline. His hand briefly touched his chest, the Amulet vanished from a clenched fist and placed over his heart, humming and glowing with his pulse. He gazed at Draal, the silver blue glow of the Daylight Armor reflecting in his burning irises.

Then, just as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone.

There was another flash of blinding blue light and Otto Scaarbach, the Trollhunter,  shrunk back into his crumpled button up, suspenders, and trousers, catching the Amulet in his spare hand, now still and cold.

Otto pushed his loose round glasses up his nose.

There were a few, tense moments where they stared at each other, troll to fleshbag, fleshbag to troll, before the changeling pocketed the Amulet and approached Draal, pressing a delicate hand against one of his protruding horns to turn the troll’s face to face him, the burning ambereque eyes semi-dazed.

Otto, blinking owlishly, gave him one of his nervous chuckles, a thin smile spreading across his lips.

His golden canine shone in the light of the Heartstone.

“I think I’ll manage, _mein Freund_ _.”_  



	4. The Chapter in Which Otto Holds Council in Christmas Pajamas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Help. My kids are fighting.
> 
> Special Thanks to YellowMagicalGirl for beta reading this chapter! ✨

Otto couldn’t help but smile at the sound of screaming.

 

It was his favorite sound to grace his changeling ears - currently in the form of squeaky teenage agony, pure and true.

 

Otto Scarbaach turned his head at the high pitched shriek from his front lawn, floppy tan sunhat moving with the tilt of his head. It was a shame that out of all his abilities, he wasn’t able to see the neighboring boys through the security fence, soaked to bone and rushing out of range of the sudden sprinklers sprouting up from the sprinklers.

 

Now he knew the time. A little past 10. His morning sprinklers were never late to water the grass, among other things.

 

A small chuckle escaped his mouth and he raised his glass, sipping his choice drink for Saturday -- lemonade and brandy on ice served in a colorful, warped glass. Otto licked his lips and savored the taste, proudly flexing his right hand at the lingering phantom sensation of his latest sucker punch.

 

It was dangerous, yes, stupid, he knew.

 

But, Otto Scaarbach would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy it.

 

Otto stopped clenching his hand, observing his shaped nails.

 

He could still feel it, the throbbing, electric power of the punch against Draal’s, big, fat nose.

 

Admittedly, Otto mused, it was a bit unfair. The troll had been graciously buzzed, no doubt drinking to buffer the grief over his late father. A pathetic excuse for a fight. It had been satisfying, all the same.

 

He took another sip.

 

Otto and Draal had shared a few tense breaths of staring at each other, troll to fleshbag, fleshbag to troll, before Otto felt a few of Blinky’s arms circle around his shoulders in an attempt to lead him away from the scene.

He didn’t resist. The whispers and protests from the surrounding crowds of Trollmarket’s residences grew as Otto turned his back; AAARRRGGHH!!! intercepted a stray metal can from hitting them as they left.

 

There was scolding, of course, and an ear-pulling experience by Blinky, asking if the man had any clue on what he had caused. Otto shot harsh glares and frowns but, offered no answer nor explanation, falling back in line between Blinky and AAARRRGGHH!!! as they walked again .

The tour was undoubtedly over, the pair of trolls accompanying Otto back home to the surface. Promising to return in a few days to start training, Blinky folded his hands, asking if Otto would so kindly **try** to make a better impression on his second visit to Trollmarket.

 

Otto Scarbaach, fishing for his key, promised not to make promises and curtly slammed the door in Blinky and AAARRRGGHH!!’s face, rolling his eyes at their still merry wish of a “A good rest of the night!” behind the thin wooden door.

 

Calling in sick at Arcadia Oaks High at the sight of the next morning sun, the changeling took a cup of heavily sugared coffee to his blood system and an x-acto knife to the unpacked boxes. He shelved his books, folded his clothes, and spent the morning trying to assemble some semblance of a home.

 

It wasn’t until the grandfather clock in his foyer announced it was past 10 did he look over his options of lunch. Half a loaf of bread, packing peanuts, and cardboard was all that was present in his home and, after tasting the bitter styrofoam, decided to give the local market a visit to fill his refrigerator with a few human groceries.

 

The locally owned supermarket was a small aging building in Arcadia’s downtown. The parking lot nearly empty when he pulled up in his rattling station wagon, cutting off the ignition in a cough and sputter. Otto wasted no time in grabbing a cart and beelining for the produce, tossing a few granny smith apples, a new loaf of bread, a chunk of fresh cheese, and a carton of milk or two into his cart. When comparing the price of decent sardines, he could’ve sworn he saw the form of Strickler walk past the exposed asile, the quick flash of brown suit nearly causing him to drop the can in his hands. He leaned forward and looked around, the man that passed nowhere to be seen.

 

Cursing, Otto threw both cans into his basket and swiped the entire shelf of _Captain’s Select_ sardines into his cart, beelining toward the check out, the dozens of tin cans traveling up the belt to be swiped by the acne riddled teen waiting at the register, smacking their strawberry scented gum.

 

The rest of his Friday was rather uneventful, Otto unpacking groceries and eating a can of olive oil sardines whole to finish up his move.

 

It was Saturday now, the worn, grizzle-faced man choosing to spend his morning lounging under the bright, blaring sun. Otto Scarbaach adjusted his seat in the inflatable kiddie pool he’d found in the basement when cleaning the day before, dark blue swimming trunks, floppy sun hat, and prescription sunglasses to match. The water splashed a bit over his exposed chubby stomach, a damp hand resting over his gut.

 

Warm sun. Good drink. Lingering satisfaction.

 

Nothing could ruin his Saturday.

 

Otto Scarbaach listened to the familiar squeak of the back gate opening.

 

He tilted his head, blinking slowly.

 

Typical.

 

A tall, slender figure moved in the corner of his vision, a flash of purple stomping towards him. He raised a hand to clear his vision and smiled, golden tooth shining in the sun.

 

Zelda Nomura, his youngest nestmate, had changed.

She was an adult when they had parted ways, sure. But her hair had lengthened, almost reaching her wiry shoulders. Her green eyes had gotten sharper, more alert. The only thing that hadn’t changed was all the purple. The color had and always would be a part of Nomura. It was her favorite, after all.

He didn’t blame her. It was a nice color.

 

“Nomura!” Otto called, lifting his head as his ice clinked in his glass, “My dear nestmate!”

The woman stood over his reclining form and pressed her hands on her hips.

  
“Where have you been?”  
  
“Germany.”  
  
_“No.”_ Nomura hissed as she waved her hand, eyebrows creasing, “ _Where have you been?_ You were supposed to be at the museum an hour ago.”

Otto’s smile deflated a bit, a look of disapproval crossing his face.

  
“Not that I recall,” Otto hummed low, setting down his drink. “It’s my day off.”

 

The changeling ignored his nestmate’s audible huff as he pulled  himself slowly to his feet, water in the pool sloshing noisily as he did.

 

He looked around for towel to make himself a bit more decent, spinning with his eyes scouring the nearby ground.

 

Otto heard a small noise of surprise from behind when he turned around, and he froze with a start, hand hovering over the lawn chair. A shiver traced his spine, a sudden wind chilling the skin of his exposed back.

 

Right.

 

He had nearly forgot.

 

Blinking rapidly, Otto Scarbaach resisted the sudden urge to reach for the indention in his shoulder, eyes finding and hands snatching the folded tee waiting in the aging green lawn chair nearby.

 

He quickly pulled the shirt over his head, the lavender fabric sticking uncomfortably to his damp skin. Seeing himself fit, Otto turned back to face his waiting nestmate and crossed his arms over the front of his shirt, halfway covering the worn “ _Arcadia Mole Maniac_ ” printed on the front.  
  
Despite what he heard, Nomura’s stoic expression remained consistent, matching Otto’s stance with a flick of her dark hair.

  
“What are you talking about, Otto?” She continued, lips pressed together in a frown, “You were a no show Thursday. _Where_ have you _been?”_  
  
“Sick.” He muttered, coughing lightly to the side, “Caught a bug.”  
  
Nomura’s green eyes widened, eyebrows raising.

  
“Are you kidding me? I went by your house that night. You weren’t there.”  
  
“You...?” Otto trailed, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end, “You came in my house?”

 

After a moment of silence, his eyes narrowed, jaw growing tense as he uncrossed his arms.

 

“Why?”

  
“I was worried about you!” Nomura shot back, throwing her arms down, “I came to check on you and found you gone!”  
  
“That doesn’t give you an invitation to walk in, unannounced!”  
  
“Being sick doesn’t give you a green-light to walk away from your duties, _unannounced!”_  
  
In one fluid motion, Otto snatched the glass from the ground, tossing it with an audible snarl. Nomura sidestepped out of Otto’s line of fire, the drink smashing against the wall with a booming thud. She stared at the trailing drink, bits of shard and spiked lemonade sliding down the wooden fence, before turning back, nostrils flaring.

  
“You missed your duties, Otto.” She finally said, voice low and even, “I need you to come with me.”

Breathing heavily, Otto took a hand to his disheveled hair in an attempt to recollect himself. They stood in a lengthy silence, observing the damage, the yellow pool, and then back to each other.

 

The changeling gave a small, sly grin.

 

_“You can’t make me go anywhere.”_

 

With a sharp cry and impact to his ribs, Otto Scarbaach felt the bright green grass of his backyard leave from underneath his feet, a scream escaping his mouth as he fell backwards. Gasping for air at the impact, Otto struggled with the nails clawing at his shoulders, the polished digits digging into his exposed skin. With a shove and roll, he pushed himself back up, his smaller nestmate not wasting time to leap and wrap her arms across his neck, clinging and clawing at his face in quick succession. He didn’t bite back any curse, spewing insults and spitting mad as he attempted to reach back to pry her off his back, spinning and knocking over the lawn chair in the process.

 

Otto never made it back to the step. Nomura managed to force him to the ground, grasp his ankle with both hands, and began to drag her nestmate towards the yawning gate. Otto Scarbaach didn’t go quietly, uselessly struggling against the nails that now dug into his kicking heel, trunks and tee snagged by the rocks and twigs scattered wildly about the yard. Nomura kicked the gate open, dragging her hefty loads towards her waiting car parked right behind Otto’s aged station wagon. They marched through the labyrinth of spraying sprinklers, the woman deaf to Otto’s new spew of curses as the back of his head smacked roughly against them.

 

Jerking the cars door open, Otto Scaarbach was tossed unceremoniously into the back seat, arms and legs landing askimbo against the pleather. Cheek pressed against the glass, Otto managed to open one of his eyes to spot the familiar faces of Jim and Toby across the street, still soaked to the bone.

 

“Jim?” Otto heard the muffled voice of Toby ask, the boy staring after the car as the front door slammed and it rumbled to life, “Should we call the police?”

 

* * *

 

 

The pair had survived this day thus far.

 

Nomura wasted no time.

 

She headed straight for Arcadias downtown district, the wide sidewalks occupied by the scattered fleshbags on their morning errands. He watched a pair of children talking with their mother, a college-aged jogger, a young woman walking with an iguana on her shoulder for Gunmar’s Sake. Otto blinked when Nomura took a sharp turn into _Joe’s Coffee_ drive-thru, his nestmate quick to roll up the car window as Otto shouted for the barista to call the police after she placed her order. Slow, turning glares and coffee and pastries was enough to bribe him into silence, Nomura shoving the two items into his small hands.

 

Nomura had been kind enough to roll down the windows at her next stop the the supermarket, the woman offering a “You’ll see...” at the purpose of yet _another_ stop.

 

When reaching their final destination, they got out climbed the stairs side by side, eyes unwavering from the museum’s opening ahead.

 

Otto Scaarbach passed a few of the patrons exiting and sitting on the front steps, their gazes locked on him as they entered.

 

He couldn’t hide the faint shade of beet rising in his cheeks.

 

When Nomura exited the market, she reasoned wet swim trunks and a tee shirt was no proper attire going into a museum.

 

Luckily, discount Christmas pajama pants, house slippers, and a dry, oversized tee was.

 

Otto tried to make the outfit work, the black sequined eyes of the jolly Saint Nicks reflecting off of every light over head. He tugged at the loose ends of his tee, shifting his eyes behind the dark sunglasses still perched on his nose.

 

His company couldn’t help but smirk, just a little.

 

“You’re different than I remember, Otto.” She commented teasingly. “You’ve gotten older.”

 _“Ja.”_ Otto murmured, stiffening his back, “and fatter. I could be Santa.”

 

They climbed another flight of steps in the front foyer, leading to the upper part of the museum and down one of its long hallways. The pair approached a door taped off for cleaning and restoration, but the changeling that worked there moved past it, pushing open the heavy door with her manicured hand.

 

Natural light spilled into the latest addition to the museum, whatever construction had been there already complete and cleaned up.  Between the open doorways leading into new, windowless sections, ancient pottery of different forms lined up the walls, Nomura’s eyes lighting up at her beloved collection displayed in their new cases.

Otto rolled his eyes at the sight, perriwinkle slippers slipping momentarily on the marble floor.

 

“Please tell me,” he murmured, hand reaching for his temple, “You didn’t want to bring me all this way to talk about your newest vases.”  
  
“No.” Nomura retorted, heels clicking against the floor, “And they’re not just _vases_.”

 

“What is it then?” Otto asked abruptly, coming to a halt in the middle of the hallway, “What is so important that you _had_ to-?”

 

“Kanjigar’s dead.”

 

The words hit him harder than it should have.

 

He knew, Otto knew he already knew. Kanjigar was dead. He had seen the pieces. Touched them.

 

It felt surreal, hearing it come from someone else.

 

Otto’s lips parted, a wordless question leaving his mouth.

 

“We found him two nights ago.”  Nomura answered, “Underneath the downtown bridge.”

 

“The Amulet, has it -?.”

 

“Missing,” Nomura sighed, rolling her eyes, “But, we don’t know if it has claimed the next Trollhunter … yet.”  
  
Otto’s mouth was suddenly dry. He bit back the redness from returning to his cheeks, stretching his mouth into a grin.

 

“Better to build for a while, with the last Trollhunter out of the way.”

 

“ **_Agreed_ **.”

 

Otto’s small grin fell.

 

He looked quizzically at Nomura, the answer too deep and dark to be her own. Staring, it took a few moments to realize her gaze was no longer focused on his face, but, instead, somewhere over his right shoulder.

 

Otto slowly turned, blinking into the opening behind them.

 

A large, bulking mass stood in the doorway, the sound of metal against flint ringing out in the tall, open space. The sparks of the sharpening weapon illuminated the squarish, bullish face of the body’s owner, with a pale scraggletooth grin to match.

 

Otto observed the towering figure behind his sunglasses, unwavering, before bowing at the waist in his recognized presence.

 

“ _Mein Prinz._ ” Otto whispered, “What an honor it is to see you again.”

.

The troll offered no response, head tilting at the display. A rumbling noise sounded from deep from within his throat and he looked past Otto, unconcerned.

 

“Impure,” he addressed Nomura, curt, “Leave us.”

 

She looked momentarily taken aback, long eyelashes fluttering at the request. The changeling was quick to recover and she managed to nod a silent goodbye to Otto and her waiting Dark Champion. The rapid sound of her shoes followed her across the tiled floor, her exit announced by the heavy thud of the double door.

 

The two that remained were trapped in an unnatural stiffness, the continued scraping of flint against metal the only sound breaking the still silence between them. Otto straightened his stance, hands folding carefully behind his back as he waited, upright and at attention.

 

Bular tilted his head, sending a spray of sparks in the changelings direction.

 

“Glad you could join us.”

 

“I am pleased as well, _Mien Prinz_.”

 

The brute observed Otto from afar, pausing in his task to observe himself in the blades’ reflection, amber eyes glowing in the dimness of the doorway.

 

“Are you?”

 

There was flash of flickering silver and Otto’s eyes widened, feeling something hard pressing against his neck.

 

The blade Bular held against his jugular was sharp as it was cold, steel digging into the exposed fleshling skin. Otto resisted the burning urge to pull up and away. A bead of sweat rushed down the back of his neck. His mouth parted in a trembling gulp of air.

 

“ _M-Mien Prinz…_ ”

 

The oversized troll pressed the sword against his neck harder, threatening to break the skin.

 

“You were not present last night.” Bular growled, tilting his head, “ _Why_?”

 

“Ill, your H-Highness.” Otto managed to sputter, eyes gazing towards the flooding skylight overhead, “C-Caught sick that night.”

 

A growl sounded from beneath Bulars wide, exposed chest, vibrating the air around them.

 

“Your excuses are weak, Impure.”

 

He lowered his weapon, releasing the pressure from Otto’s neck.

 

“Let us hope not to see the blood that spills at another one of the sort.”  
  
Otto’s quickly covered his expression of visible relief with another bow, the air he’d been holding released in a soft sigh.

 

“O-Of course, _Mien Prinz._ ”

 

Sweat tracing the crease of his brow, Otto Scaarbach held the reverence for another beat before slowly rising back up, straightening his back.

 

Bular was smiling now, a gruesome grin stretching across his features. The troll sidestepped and shifted his gaze to the familiar wooden crates stacked in the far corner of the room, shadows from the windowless exhibit filtering over them.

 

“Soon my father will know freedom,” Bular breathed, “and glory.”

 

At the word “glory”, Otto‘s spare hand slipped into his pants pocket.

 

The cool metal hummed under his touch, the electric sensation traveling quickly up his arm. He blocked the rays of blue sunlight from escaping with his palm, the dials rotating in time with his heart.

 

Otto Scaarbach could only swallow thickly, clenching the Amulet in a tight, trembling fist.

 

“Soon he shall…”


	5. The Chapter in Which Red is the Most Human Color

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, he doesn't know when to keep his mouth shut.
> 
> Special Thanks to Lusey for being my beta reader! All the best!

The final school bell couldn’t come fast enough, and when it did, there was a flood of warm bodies into the hallways, voices buzzing and growing in number.

In the struggling mass, two boys picked their way through, keeping their bookbags close as they shuffled towards the door and out into the day. It was a rather overcast afternoon, but a few birds were out and about, flitting from skinny tree to skinny tree. Tobias watched a robin pick a wriggling worm from the damp soil, one of the remaining birds out for the day. They were becoming less common now, the smell of pumpkin and wet autumn leaves replacing their cheery, fluttering presence. Cooler weather was in store in the next week or so, and Toby was already ready for the coffee shop to stock up on the pumpkin spice cappuccinos.

Jim, traveling alongside the shorter teen, bumped him with his shoulder, smiling. Tobias smiled back gently, glad that the hard day was over and they could travel home for a nice —.

“Pepperjack!”

The stern voice cut through the courtyard and the pair turned as a body collided into the row of blue lockers. Jim winced, staring over Tobias’ shoulder as the one and only Steve Palchuk made an appearance at Arcadia Oaks High, blonde hair, clenched fists and all. Tobias paused and stared as the small body of Eli shook the lockers again. The smaller boy clutched at his essay, whimpering in a short protest as it was ripped mercilessly from his hands. There was a flipping of papers, a chuckle, then a slap against a cheek as Steve marched victoriously away, the pair of blue eyes stealing a white hot glance in their direction.

Toby felt a hand slide around his back and shoulders -- Jim, he realized, after a startled hair-raising moment, staring back at Steve’s crinkly-eyed smile. There was a pause, the two locked in each other’s gaze before Jim, breaking contact first, lead Toby away towards the waiting rack of bicycles, grip secure.

There was the squeaking of sneaker shoes as the form of Steve retreated and Toby and Jim approached their bikes.

“You alright, Tobes?” Jim asked, removing his arm from around Toby’s shoulder.

Tobias nodded his head, looking up and back at Jim.

They both smiled at the sensation of a synchronized pat _\-- ba-dum pat! --_ finishing with a circular motion on their shoulder blades before releasing, reaching for helmets and bike locks.

The “ _Ba-Dum Pat_ ” was one of the few secret gestures Toby and Jim held close. A bit odd to outsiders, especially if one didn’t see them on the daily.

But to them -- it sign they had each other’s back -- strong and reassuring.

“Where to?” Toby asked, pulling the strap of his helmet closer around his chin.

Jim thought momentarily, clicking the clip close with a snap.

“Tacos? But I know we had that recently.”

“True. What else do we have? You choose this time.” Toby hummed as he pushed forward with his feet, pedaling out of the schools courtyard and onto the street. Jim wasn’t far behind, and, after catching up to Tobes at the light, gave him a small knock on the shoulder with his knuckles.

“How about we go pick up groceries at the store and bake something at home?”

The auburn haired teen’s face lit up at the idea, his feet bouncing side to side against the asphalt.

“An apple pie?” Tobias suggested, braces shining, “I can grab the apples if you get some eggs.”

The light turned green and Jim nodded, leaning forward.

“Sure thing! Five bucks I can get to the checkout faster!”

_“You’re on!”_

In a flash of speeding green and blue the pair of teens tore across the street and further downtown, tires squeaking, hair flying, and brown leaves stirring as they sped by.

A few turns away from the aging, stuck in the 90s supermarket, Tobias’ eyes widened as he squeezed his brakes and skid to a stop, looking back over his shoulder.

It took a few moments for Jim to realize his closest companion was no longer at his side, hit his brakes and pushed himself back with his feet, brow furrowed.

“What?” Jim asked, “What is it?”

The teen blinked, staring down the long stretch of street.

“Is that Mr. Scarbaach carrying a phonograph?”

Jim followed their gaze and, indeed, their newest neighbour and English teacher -- disheveled, sweating, and out of breath -- ran inches to being flattened by a vehicle as he rushed across the street, holding a cardboard box with a dusty green horn close to his chest. A foul mouthed shout escaped the rolled down window and Otto Scarbaach shot something back the pair couldn’t make out, a German curse of sorts.

Jim and Tobias exchanged a brief stare, before, in a flurry of pedaling, they rushed forward, trying to keep their neighbour in their sights as he moved along again at a steady pace.

The German man rounded the corner, the teens momentarily blind, before Jim skidded to a stop at the edge of the building, holding out an arm.

“Wait.”

Toby followed suit in stopping, leaning to one side and peeking around the corner, pressing his rounded cheek against Jim’s.

Otto Scarbaach was beelining for a squat brick building with tinted windows and a painted front. It one of the older buildings scattered in Arcadia’s downtown and it wasn’t impressive by any means.

It caught their attention, nevertheless.

“A travel agency?” Jim spoke aloud, brows furrowing.

“Since when do those still exist?” Toby inquired, pressing his cheek further into Jim’s as he leaned forward, “When dinosaurs walked the earth?”

They continued to watch as Otto reached for the door, fumbling momentarily, before managing to pull it open, the overhanging bell ringing softly as he squeezed in, box held close to his chest.

With a final exchanged look, the teens dismounted their bikes and hurried forward once he was out of sight, taking two steps at a time.

Jim stopped at the edge of the tinted window as Toby slid underneath the window pane, dropping and gliding forward on his jeans.

Both teens flinched at the sound of ripping fabric and Toby looked down at his now holey jeans before over his shoulder at Jim, eyes wide.

“I... regret that tremendously.”

With squeaking red and white sneakers, Toby finished his journey cross, crouching low as he reached into his back pocket, fumbling to find purchase.

The boy extracted a pair of round silver rimmed glasses and pushed them up his nose, his green eyes slightly larger with the lens.

Then, carefully, they pressed their face together against the glass, and peered in.

* * *

Nomura announced her presence with a crisp, clean crunch.

The sliding door of the Janus Order monitoring room closed behind her with a hiss and she chewed on the apple she held tightly in a fist, her pearly teeth shining as she reached up and wiped the excess juice of the fruit off her chin.

In the mid-afternoon and birth of Monday evening, many changeling comrades were present in Arcadia Oak’s headquarters of the Janus Order. Nocturnal workers, this bunch. Nightfall seemed to act as the best cloak for things wished to be left unseen. The masked faces of her fellow changelings she encountered gave Zelda Nomura a generous berth as she passed and chewed her snack slowly, thoughtfully.

It was about time to finish her break, then there was extended hour tours, closing, before finally installing more of the --.

The hollow clattering behind a door as she passed caused Nomura to pause, turning her hand and staring. She took another bite, sharpened teeth gracing the hard core.

It sounded like trouble.

And, therefore, it sounded like her.

Shifting her weight on her feet, Nomura reached for the keypad, entering the four digit code with a thumb as she placed the apple in her mouth -- holding it firmly between her teeth. Beeping at the correct entry, the metal door yawned open and Nomura stepped inside before it snapped shut as she crossed the threshold.

The throne room for Gunmar was nothing short of decorated. Every detail, every carving on the wall, hand done. A massive throne was still being built in the middle, grey, stone steps leading towards the incomplete chair. The anticipation of their Dark Underlord’s return to the surface world could be felt from the cool cobblestone steps to the blue tinted lights the oval shape of the ceiling cast overhead.

And now, cast in the gentle beam, was the form of Otto Scarbaach laying flat on the floor, the Pavillion of the Order’s phonograph over his head.

“Otto?”

_“Humph.”_ A dissatisfied voice echoed from within, dainty hands reaching up to tug gently at the horn, “Unfortunately.”

A laugh broke from Nomura’s mouth as soon as she removed the apple from her mouth, nearly bent in two with her giggling.

Otto gave another groaning noise as he rolled side to side and failed rise.

_“Help. Me.”_

Setting her apple from her mouth onto the rolling cart next to the door, Nomura stifled a few more chuckles with a bitten lip and made her way over to the man, watching as he struggled against the contraption trapped over his head. With inhuman strength, she grasped his wrists and pulled him to his feet, his wingtip shoes setting down with a soft plop against the stone floor.

“Hold still.” Nomura instructed, placing her hands around the base, “Lemme see about getting this off.”

“ _Bitte.”_ Otto echoed, hands fumbling up towards his head. Nomura gave a swift slap on the wrist when they got in the way and Otto flinched, lowering his fingers from trying to assist.

The female changeling twisted and tugged and pulled, Otto’s feet momentarily lifting off the ground with a muffled yell.

“Nearly there! Nearly --!”

With an audible _‘pop!’_ it came off of his head and the disheveled German couldn’t help but gasp aloud once he was free. He stumbled back, feet pedaling, but was able to right himself again, rubbing a cheek.

“ _Danke_.” Otto breathed, taking a moment to catch his breath before giving a crooked, golden toothed smile.

Nomura just stood quietly, holding the horn tightly in her hands. She looked down, looked back up at the polymorph. She gave a small, amused look.

“How the Hell did this happen?”

Otto’s smile faded into a scowl and he huffed.

“A screw came loose on the horn and I dropped the nut inside. I was just retrieving it!”

“By sticking your head inside?”

The man’s ears grew a shade of salmon, he opened his mouth to protest before he settled for waving a hand dismissively.

“That wasn’t my intention.”

“How do you survive?”

The German man returned to his work with a snort, kneeling to sweep his hand for the fallen bolt and screw that blended well with the ground.

Nomura sighed, rolling her neck, and walked to Otto’s side.

“Here.” Nomura spoke, ramming the horn on the base before he could protest, “This is too tragic to watch.”

Otto gave a small stare, pushing his glasses up his nose again, before he continued his search, blue eyes sweeping the stone as he muttered under his breath. He hit something recognizable, a sigh of relief as he picked up the two pieces, scooting forward on his knees. Nomura stifled an amused grin as she watched the small hands fumble with the relic before finally getting it to catch, a delighted sound coming from Otto as he grabbed a wrench and began to twist it tighter.

Nomura held it stead as he feverishly worked, straightening the arrangement a bit himself before he pushed up from his knees and stepped back, admiring their handiwork before he wiped a curved edge to shine with a sleeve.

“Now!” Otto chimed, trotting a ways and reaching into the cardboard box it had traveled far and wide in. “Let us see what we should play.”

Removing a few pieces of yellowed newsprint, a packing peanut or two, Otto found what he was looking for -- a lone record that sat as the base at the bottom of the box.

The vinyl was carefully removed from the worn sleeve, the front image tarnished and rubbed till it was nearly blank. It was carefully placed atop the table and the polymorph cranked it to life with vigor, the mechanism clicking within. Otto stepped quickly back as the large, inky black disc began to spin -- a disjoined voice singing some sad tune deep within the horn.

Otto gave a laugh, clapping and clasping his hands together at the slow, steady melody.

_“The Song of the Pale Lady…”_ Otto breathed, tone a bit awestruck as the lost tongue echoed off the walls and back to the pair, “I feel we might need her advice quite soon.” His eyes shifted behind his glasses, and he pushed them up, swallowing, “ _Quite_ soon…”

Nomura stared momentarily at her colleague and nestmate before her pair of dark eyes peered back to the spinning record -- the song composed of a piano and male voice playing, ringing, for all to hear.

Pale Lady’s advice… _pah!_

In all her years, sulking in hallways of Orders and playing her role as Zelda Nomura -- she hadn’t heard a damn word.

* * *

_“Again!”_

There was a dropping of axes, a spark of flame and the arena was breathing -- **alive**.

A blue blur dove from the topmost platform, a victorious howl breaking out as crystals glinted, spun and shone in the light of the Hero’s Forage. It was a glorious sight to behold, the Kitlar deflecting flying projectiles and dummies and fire shot from various traps and pitfalls and totems around the arena. Draal stopped spinning when he landed the next platform -- his thick crystals protecting him from a flying spear, the weapon bouncing off the outer shell on his back. He twisted his body, snagging the spear and flinging it towards a dummy that had leapt up from the floor, knocking it clean off its stand and impaling it on a far wall.

Ah, yes. His techniques were common, precise, timed. It would’ve been impressive, very much so, to the current Trollhunter. That is, if Otto Scarbaach hadn’t been waiting for the past hour for what he reasoned as his _deserved_ turn.

Late.

He was so incredibly, incredibly late.

Blinky. Arrgghh. Training for his part as the Trollhunter. He’d nearly forgotten it all. And for a bit, wish he had.

With dropping of the relic, finishing vocabulary books, piling his plate with another can of sardines, and scrolling clumsily through his emails to find the status of the next bridge piece, he had wanted nothing more than a soak in the clawfoot tub to aid his aching neck, sooth his jumping nerves and worries of more than one approaching deadline.

But, now, sitting on the edge of the arena, Otto Scarbaach paced from side to side, the sinking feeling of a hot bath wouldn’t be anywhere in the near future.

The polymorph found himself falling late in the present moment -- once again, running behind. With his half hour tardiness to meet the pair of trolls under the bridge, Otto could only watch as the arena was alight and moving wildly -- without him, acting as an audience to the last troll he wanted to see.

Watching the next set of spears launch, Otto felt his jaw clench.

In their time, sitting on the sidelines, the blue brute hadn’t even noticed them yet -- too lost in his own training to care he was hogging the primary training area. Blinky had suggested a wait on the sidelines, seeing that the troll was in the middle of practicing his technique when they had entered. Trolls were not the most considerate when it came to manners, but, none of the three raised their hand to volunteer taking the position of training from Draal. It seemed only necessary, even if it was itching after a while.

The elder troll tapped Otto’s shoulder when his attention waned and pointed to Draal’s form through the air on occasion, speaking excitedly at the sight. Form, technique, speed. The meaning and importance fell upon deaf ears, the polymorph focusing shooting daggers at the Kitlar as he passed instead.

Brutish, inconsiderate, a kink in the smooth running system that was supposed to be his evening! His life!

_To Hell with him!_

He kicked a stray stone in his frustration, his impatience of getting his task over and done with boiling to a breaking point in a swift, strong kick.

He watched at the stone clatter across the floor and couldn’t help but widen his eyes in horror as it bounced and hit a newly lit torch, rolling it as Draal rounded a corner in another one of his spins. There was a startled yell at the unmarked danger and the blue speeding ball had to serve quickly to avoid being burned completely alive. The smell of sulfur filled the air and the trio of awaiting bodies had to dive out of the way to avoid the collision course of Draal, the Kitlar troll rushing by and colliding with the row of weapons and spears behind them.

Otto Scarbaach bent over with the sound of metallic scraping and clattering, and, only after did the Forge settle in a still silence, did he bring himself to look up, opening a singular eye behind his round glasses.

Smoking, charred, but very much alive, Draal sat up from where he landed against the swords and spears, pupils burning.

_“Who --? What--?”_

Draal’s eyes narrowed, recognition and realization filling his face.

**“You.”**

“Ah… _Hallo…”_

The Kitlar stood, swaying heavily on his feet from his fall. A spear was snagged in his curved, oversized horns and he reached up, gripping it tightly in a fist.

“What _\--” tug, “_ are you -- _” tug, tug, “_ doing here? _”_

A crack sounded as the spear split and splintered, the troll throwing the stump of the weapon to the ground, right at the polymorphs feet.

Otto stared at the broken half as the Kitlar struggled with the other still stuck in his antlers.

“Training!” Blinky chimed, raising his upper two hands in a joyful gesture, “or waiting, till you were done with the arena, of course. Teaching the our newest Trollhunter is of utmost --.”

A snarl cut off the librarian and the singed Kitlar stepped forward, clenching a fist.

“He is  _no_ Trollhunter!” He spat, lowering his face towards the librarians level, “He’s not a troll!”

“But -- well! He’s --!”

_“I am just as capable.”_ Otto piped, furrowing his brow, as he crossed his arms, “I think we’ve already had this discussion – as proved by your smarting nose.”

Draals face shifting into a scowl, one nostril flaring, as he flinched at the small, purple bruise.

“Hardly a fair fight.” The Kitlar spoke as he turned his body to the newest champion, clenching a fist.

“Agreed _.”_ Otto snapped back, raising on his toes in an attempt to make himself more eye to eye. “But, I won anyways, didn’t I?”

Blinky glanced between the two, his six eyes widening as the tension mounted atop the next.

“Hmm!” He interjected, placing a hand on Otto’s shoulder, “I do believe that our Trollhunter should experience --.”

“A spar?” Draal suggested, “What a marvelous idea.”

“Actually, I was going to suggest--.”

“What say you, Trollhunter?” Draal interrupted again, stepping forward till they nearly touched noses, the hot, uneven breath of the troll hitting Otto’s face in a rush.

“Master Otto, I do believe --.”

“Fine.” Otto snarked, shrugging Blinky’s grip and raising his fists.

A booming laugh shook the walls of the Forage, and the polymorph deflated slightly, lowering a hand a bit.

“Your armor, _Trollhunter.”_ Draal sneered as he turned to put some running space between them. Otto felt the Amulet hum in his pocket at the mention and he felt his hand fall over it, slowly turning a heel.

“Master Otto.” Blinky hissed, gripping his shoulder again, harder this time, “Do you realize what you’ve done?”

“A spar.” He chirped, reaching in his pocket, “As Draal wishes…”

The historian was incredulous, his six eyes blinking.  
  
“But do you even have experience with fighting?”

“Of course.”  
  
_Rarely._

“Much experience?”

“ _Ja_.”

_A blunt lie._ Most combat involved attacking from behind, a knife of some sort. There was rarely struggle.

Blinky shook his head, scowling, holding that shoulder firmer.

“ _You need to understand._ Draal the Deadly is no match for someone of your stature just starting out. I implore you to stop this rivalry at once. Your arrogance and pride will only get you -- !”

“ _Fleshbag!”_ Draal called from across the ring and Otto turned to meet his gaze. He hit his fist against his open palm, chuckling, “I do not like to wait!”

Blinky opened his mouth to protest at the quick unfolding of conflict as Otto pulled away, gaze just as stark, hard, and hot to Draal in return. Blinky’s words caught in his mouth as he stared after him, his four hands folding on themselves before he backed out of the ring, joining AAARRRGGHH!!! on the sidelines. The maned troll gave the pannoxi a reassuring pat on the back – despite his expression of concern.

Otto Scarbaach stopped on the edge of the inner ring, widening his stance and gripping the Amulet in his hand, fingers trembling. It gave a pulsing glow against his skin, illuminating the spidery veins within his flesh, but Otto did not notice this, his gaze locked with the Kitlar.

He swallowed, staring at the troll, before he held out an arm, his focus on the extended limb in front of him.

_“For the Glory of Merlin -- Daylight is Mine to Command!”_

There was an eruption of blue light from Otto’s palm and the changeling felt his feet momentarily leave the ground, the silver clad armor forming around him, securing with a metallic click. He landed on his feet, his back suddenly heavier than before. An oversized sword, which with another fiery glow, shrank to fit his human size, the deadly blade glinting in the light of the arena.

An unfit sword. He felt the eyes of Draal settle heavily upon him. Visibly inexperienced with Daylight. This made the troll smile.

Otto cleared his throat, furrowing a brow, his blood boiling at the look.

“So... did the last _Dummkopf_ who had this job do this sort of thing often?”

“My father was no ‘Dumb-cough’!” Draal snorts, lowering himself into a defensive crouch, “He was the Trollhunter! A true troll! A warrior!”

_“Was...”_ Otto chuckles, unsheathing his sword, and widening his stance. “Explains so much... I sense what side you got your dumb brashness from. Or... wait...” The polymorph tapped his chin, eyes set aflame, as a crooked smile presses into his rounded cheeks. “Is this from your mother? Pray tell, _mein Freund_ , where is she?”

There was a flash of blue blur, and Otto fell to the side as Draal whizzed past him, the sound of crystal scraping stone electrifying the air. Otto reached and felt the minuscule intention left by the blue beast’s claws as he rounded the arena spinning in a ball, before speeding back.

Otto raised his weapon, brow furrowed.

The fight had begun.

A swing of his sword rung out wildly in the air and Otto was more than horrified to find the weapon had missed it’s mark -- a clenched fist finding the back of his metallic armor as he passed. Otto’s world twisted, the ceiling and floor meshing as one as he spun and felt himself fly across the Forge, bouncing against the floor and rolling to a stop.

Pins and needles shot up his legs and arms, and Otto struggled to rise -- his hands pressing into the chalky surface. He didn’t make it to far on his knees before a dizzying toss came again, this time in the other direction, where his shoulder caught a wall and he slid down with a hollow metal _clank._

He bit his tongue to hold back a guttural scream, his left shoulder firing his nerves as a hand came to clutch his collarbone. His discomfort and pain did not stop Draal or his attacks, the polymorph unceremoniously flung, kicked, and swung around the arena, roars from the blue troll ringing loud and clear across the space. He did his best to rise and deflect them, but, it was no use. The troll gave him no time to act, speak, or properly defend, sending the Trollhunter back and forward across the Forage, a yelp, shout, or roar of growing anger erupting from Otto’s mouth each time.

There was a rapid fire of fists against Otto’s gut and chest, an uppercut to the jaw. Otto felt the gargantuan hand of Kanjigars son come around him, holding him firm and in place. His feet left the soil and his limbs pedaled for purchase, but found nothing but empty air beneath him. He peered over a knuckle and yelled at the sheer drop -- the inky emptiness of the Forage’s surroundings far below his sight. He panted, gripping the palm and fingers with his petite hands, struggling to break loose. Draal grinned at that, tilting his horns with his head.

“Never seen infinity, Trollhunter?”

Otto spat without hesitation, and the Kitlar flinced as the glob that landed on his cheek. He slowly turned his head back towards him, increasing the pressure on his armor. Otto yelled as the metal crackled and snapped under the massive fist before Otto felt the grip release, a scream escaping as he felt his body plummet and his hands caught the edge of the crumbling Forage.

A shooting hot pain came from his pinky, and Otto screamed as a gargantuan foot came down upon his digit, twisting it into the soil.

_“You think you’re something, Trollhunter.”_ Draal hissed, wiping his cheek with the back of his hand, “But you are wrong. You are _nothing_ . And you will never be **anything.** ”

Another stomp, and Otto cried out again, his grip slipping.

“My father was the best of them all! And I have worked my _entire life_ for that Amulet.” He paused. “Soon, I hope I don’t have to wait much longer.”

There was an increased pressure, a popping noise, before Draal finally released his clutch, stepping back as two figures finally broke out and across the ring, over to them.

Otto felt his hands being grabbed and, through sweat, saw six eyes staring down, holding to his collar. There was panting and the pannoxi’s grip tightened on Otto’s collar, a disapproving noise leaving his lips at the both of them.

There was a flash of blue light and the Amulet fell away, clattering noisily to the stone. Otto watched as it rattled against the ground, bent over, glasses gone, and breath heavy.

“This was only supposed to be a spar,” Blinky spoke, two of his eyes meeting Draal’s, “Not a match.”

“It became a match,” Draal growled, bunching his shoulders “when he opened his _fucking_ mouth.”

A heavy silence filled the air, broken only by the ragged breath of the polymorph as he gripped his bruising ribs and the loose soil brought forth by their struggle, his air being sucked through his teeth.

There was shifting, Otto flinched, and he felt the hot breath settle over the exposed skin of the back of his neck, a vibrating growl filling the air.

“I suggest you keep that mouth of yours shut next time. If you wish to live, you _f_ _leshbag worm.”_

The Kitlar gave one last snort in Otto’s direction, picking his ax from the ground and finally stomping off and out of the arena, as they had been waiting so patiently for him to do.

Otto coughed hollowly and watched as a bit of scarlet blood dripped from his mouth and onto the cold, unforgiving stones of the Forage. He felt his cheeks rush with anger and defeat, beet ears and cheeks and neck, flushing as he bit a busted lip and was lifted unceremoniously to his feet again, groaning. He stole a glance in the irises of Blinky’s six eyes, the pannoxi yelling and chiding and fretting as he held him by the shoulders, shaking him on occasion. He stared at his tomato face and watched as scarlet ran down his chin and dripped onto his wrinkled, white button up.

Red. The most human color.


	6. Chapter 5:  Essays, and Packages, and Teens, Oh Mein Gott!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> as the title says -- Otto is a bit fed up this time
> 
> Thanks for beta reading my chapter again Lusey! >:3

Otto Scarbaach let the water run till it steamed in the poised clawfoot tub, hanging his arm over the side and pressing his head back against the polished eggshell ceramic. Somewhere nearby, an aging vinyl record spun, low and mournful. Something about love -- lovers -- messy, sloppy, wet kisses under the sharp knife of pale moonlight.

The man’s head rolled off to the side, eyes half lidded and hazed and eyebrows creased upwards as the remnants of the tap dripped slowly into the bath -- rings traveling from one end of his feet and the faucet and towards his face. Glasses crooked, his let his blue eyes wander languidly around the lavatory, taking in rounded sink, blue tile and walls. A fake fern sat off behind him -- plastic leaves gracing a shoulder tenderly, a phantom sensation tracing his spine.

The song was now about a man in Paris.

He flinched at a soft moment of turning his head back over to the other side, towards the window. Mouth creasing into a pained frown and a suppressed groan, Otto drew his arms close and sunk lower into the clawfoot, the water rising over his mouth, where an occasional bubble escaped from pressed, tight lips. Bruises and scrapes were visible now, exposed from underneath sleeves of button ups, trousers, and much too tight ties. He lifted an arm out of the steaming tap to stare at the flushed skin of his body -- human, pink, and soft. He felt himself frown deeper at a purple bruise that traveled up his side -- starting from his wide hip all the way up to rest underneath the topmost rib. The man watched his broad chest break the surface tension of the water with his uneven, semi-wheezing, breath -- above, underneath, above, underneath.

He stared a moment more at the hairy, wide, blemished, pockmarked thing that was his human body -- his integrated human form, despite his polymorph abilities.

Then, with a thumb and forefinger, he pulled the round, wire framed glasses away from his face, closing his eyes, before he slipped under the surface, bubbles erupting from his nose and lips.

He didn’t mind opening his mouth to scream here -- no one could hear him under the waves cascading over his head.

The turntable was stuck on the last note.

* * *

A few hours of sleep, closed eyes in a lonely breakroom, a momentary sit on a park bench, shooing away songbirds -- but there was no rest for Otto Scarbaach.

The day after the fight in the Forge came and went -- the world moving on, turning, unaware of his plight and anguish.

He, however, was painfully aware.

He fumed over the coffee machine, over his desk, over his lunch, and over his feet turned back towards his home on Oak Drive.

The briefcase he held at his side was heavy in his fingers, the small golden band digging into his hand. He switched hands and fiddled with the small thing, his fingers almost too big to fit it. He was a fan of gold -- golden accents, golden rings, golden sun.  Inside his mouth, his tongue graced his golden canine -- a cap of a missing tooth. He was glad Draal wasn’t able to knock it out in their scuffle. He bore all his teeth for a moment, scrunching and stretching his mouth as he paused in the middle of the bridge -- looking over. He relaxed his face in his tired expression again, rubbing the 5 o’clock shadow forming under his scraggly facial hair. Looking over the empty canal at a few scattered cans, some broken branches and leaves, he pushed off, nose towards the emerging neighbourhood, feet heavy.

“Mr. Scarbaach! Hey! Mr. Scarbaach! Wait up!”

**_Scheisse!_ ** He’d forgotten!

Otto Scarbaach did _not_ try to wait up, hoping the pair of boys approaching from behind didn’t notice how he increased his steps to two at a time.

Two steps at a time, however, were no match for a set of two wheels.

They were upon him.

“Mr. Scarbaach!” Jim, the taller of the two, chirped, pulling up right beside the man and dismounting from his bike, “I didn’t know you took this way home too!”

_Note to self – Find New Route Home_

_“Ack!”_ Otto dismissed, continuing his walk and waving his hand in the air, “I always do.”

They followed, the smaller boy still pedaling.

“Well, we usually don’t see you!”

Otto raised an eyebrow at the two of them – blinking behind his round, black framed glasses.

“Don’t you two have somewhere to be?”

“Nope!” Jim chirped again – the polymorph now noticing the strange strain to his voice – a crack – something more than puberty. Both of them, in fact – their smiles a bit too wide for their faces.

“Well, I do,” Otto commented, giving a small, well manicured smirk, “ _Ciao_ boys – I’ll see you two in cl-.”

“Wait!” Tobias suddenly interjected, producing papers out of his back pocket, “I wanted to give you my essay earlier.”

“Oh --! Oh yes!” The other cut in, young hands fumbling in his pockets for something, anything, “I-I do too! _My_ essay.”

Otto blinked – this was getting too strange too fast. He had to shut this down. _Now._

“Boys --.”

“Please!” Tobias injected, leaping from around his bike and shoving the paper in his hands. Otto instinctively pulled back at the sudden approach – but found his grip to be caught in the boys hands.

He felt his stomach churn, his mouth turn dry.

“ _Danke –_ This is hardly appro --.”

He got closer, a hand gracing the top of the briefcase and the skin of his pockmarked, aging hand.

“Can you take it?”

“ _Tobias --.”_

The boy held firm, the papers fluttering, “Oh! Won’t you at least --!”

“ENOUGH!” Otto finally snapped, forcefully pulling away from the grasp, out of the suffocating thing called human touch. He watched as the papers went flying and fluttering to the ground and, in a snap – the briefcase split open when he pulled away, sending vocabulary books, highlighters and red pens spilling to the ground. But nothing unique – nothing magical – besides the words of Shakespeare.

Otto stared in momentary shock before raising his eyes in a deep glare, blood boiling.

“What is wrong with you two?” He chided loudly, scooping to pick up the fallen papers with both of his small hands. The boys held an expression Otto couldn’t quite place -- shock? Surprise? What had they expected to --?

He stopped shuffling in the papers, hands freezing.

It hit him.

He resumed picking up his belongings, muttering in his foreign tongue, cursing. He stuffed the papers and books unceremoniously back into his case, snapping it shut.

The pair jumped a bit at the noise, as if coming out of a trance. Their expression switched immediately, a hand reaching out to touch a shoulder.

“Mr. Scarbaach, we --.”

Otto rose back to his full height, stepping back from that hand and staring down at the teenagers.

“ _Bitte_.” He spoke again, softer, tired, “That is enough.”

“But we --.”

“Enough.” He finished, putting his foot down and in front of the other as he strode off, holding his belongings close to himself. Slowly, with dragging feet, he clambered up the front steps of his small, two story home and made his way inside -- shutting the front door, twisting his half dozen deadlocks to close.

He rested his back against the wooden door -- snorting, before hanging his hat on the rack, and reaching for the crease of his coat to peel it off his shoulders. Kicking off his shoes, unfurling his tie, halfway unbuttoning his shirt, he hefted himself onto the couch, flopping down on his back with an exaggerated huff of air. He laid there for a while, his blue eyes searching the crown molding and white ceiling before, subconsciously, he fingers drew out and object from his trouser pocket.

His vision was replaced with a glimpse of silver and blue, the Amulet ticking in time with him. His black rimmed glasses reflected the glow against his face, and he sighed, dropping his arm and muffling the light against his chest.

 

They knew something.

 

* * *

 

The can of sardines were muted, dull, unimpressive. Despite the flavor he tried to toss in, the garlic, pepper and salt, even basil leaves and thyme as garish -- nothing satisfied Otto’s hungry palate. He had changed his shirt -- same but different -- his tie was a bit darker this time, more pressed. He had his primary job with the Bridge tonight after all. He ate at the far end of his dinner table, alone, using a fork and knife to cut into the tightly packed fish.

The usual.

“Ugh --.” was all he had to say to his meal, before scarfing it down whole and standing to grab another one, his nervous hunger winning him over. In his internal debate between feasting on salt water and olive oil -- he took pause in the doorway.

Before hearing a pair of footsteps leaving the front porch!

It was here!

With his sock covered feet sliding across the floor, he made his way to the front of the house and threw open the door, staring down.

Nothing, as he watched the white truck pull off into the sunset. He frowned, looked around, poked on the porch. Still nothing. He cursed at his luck, opening the black mailbox and thumbing through -- bills, bills, a Bed, Bath and Beyond coupon, bills. He snorted, put them under his arm, and began to ponder where where Strickler would be at this time. A late piece he would inform but, at least they had the rest to work with.

He didn’t have to worry about it too terribly long.

“Hey! Hey! Mr. Scarbaach!”

The shout caused Otto to take a quick step of surprise to the side to turn, head snapping from its place in the threshold, blood running cold at the familiar voice.

The smaller yet rounder one, it seemed, decided to pay a visit. Tobias’ tawny auburn hair stuck out from all ends and wide grin plastered onto his face. The teen struggled with something in his hands and Otto followed down till he spotted --.

“You _opened_ it?” Otto exclaimed, back growing rigid in momentary shock at the expected box for him in the other beings’ hands.

Indeed, the large hunk of stone that had been resting in the hay inside the crate at the boys’ feet was in Toby’s large hands. The teen held it close to his chest, the triangular stone oversized in his short, rounded arms.

“Sorry for opening it! We didn’t see the address at first.” He exclaimed as he gestured towards Jim’s house with his shoulder. “We found it on the porch at our place.”

Unlikely story. Otto shook his head. Stubborn, stupid boy. He hadn’t even pointed towards the right house!

His look of annoyance, however, slowly into a look of silent, horrified, recognition.

The Eyestone, not the hefty chunk, weeks early in the mail.

A noise escaped his lips, the man raising a hand.

“Why don’t you let me take that from you, _Mien --.”_

“It’s alright! It’s not that heavy.” The boy insisted, holding it closer, “What are you doing with this big piece of cobblestone, anyway?” Tobias face lit up in a sudden excited thought, “Wait! Do you collect stones too?”

“Didn’t your mother teach you manners?” Otto spat roughly, “Because that is none of your business!”

The smile Toby held fell instantly, the boy backing up a few steps.

“Oh. Well, could at least help you carry it inside?”

_“Nien!”_ Otto shouted, “I don’t want anything to do with you or … Jimothy! John! The other one! Whoever he is to you! You caused enough trouble to me today!”

Toby took another tentative step back.

“O-Oh. I’m --.”

“‘ _Oh! Oh! Mr. Scarbaach!;”_ Otto retorted in a sing-song voice, “Save everything.” Otto waved his hand, frown lines creasing his mouth, “In case you haven’t noticed I’m a very busy man and I don’t have the time to baby you or your --.”

Another step and this time Toby cowed low. In his movements, neither party had noticed the boy making his way back towards the crickety front steps and startled, Toby gasped at his sudden unbalanced stance, a look of fear crossing his face as he started falling back. Otto, shouting a stray German curse, lunged forward, hands reaching for the precious stone. In the rush, his hands, however, found Toby’s shirtfront instead, the lurch forward causing the boys hands to fly up and --

_CRACK!_

Wide-eyed, Otto looked over Toby’s suspended form, to find parts of a once triangular stone strewn down the front steps in a stream of chunks and powder. The pair were deathly silent, staring at the mess before Otto, with a trembling hand, released Toby from his grip, sending him sprawling down towards the ground.

Landing at the bottom step, the boy tentatively picked up a large piece of the once together stone, looking back up at his expressionless neighbor with a tomato red-cheeked smile.

“You, uh, don’t happen to have a receipt, do you?”


	7. The Chapter In Which Otto is Late

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Run Boy Run
> 
> \-- 
> 
> Big thanks for Lusey for beta reading! All the best!

“He’s  _ late.. _ .”

“Give him time.”

“No -- he’s had enough.”

“Patience, my Prince.” Strickler spoke back, his voice matched only by the silk and tapestries hanging on the walls, “Shall I remind you who’s in charge of organizing these orders as of late?”   
  
Bular made a small puff of air, like a dog about to bark.   
  
“He is an incompetent fool.”   
  
“Perhaps.”   
  
“Tell me -- how a man as himself made it to his position?”   
  
“Because, my Prince,” Strickler stated, a look behind his eyes, “You ate the last one.”

That was enough to send him off and away from the opening of the window over the downtown of Arcadia, knocking aside some tarp as he huffed again, forming the noise into a bark of orders towards the milling changelings, sending them into a flurry like startled pigeons.    
  
Strickler rolled his eyes once he was out of range, staring into the semi-darkness of the museum courtyard outside before turning back at the task before him, stepping away from the opening. Lifting the top and hay from a nearby crate, he stared at the small chunks of rock, ancient, crumbling, but filled to the brim with humming, living magic. He lifted up a small chunk from the box, and watched as it left his hands delicately -- hovering over to the column building up, slowly and steadily.

He watched the dozen or so changelings mimicking his movements, digging into crates, lifting up the small, inconspicuous pieces, building, restoring.

Strickler looked briefly over his shoulder, brow furrowing, face like flint.

Where  _ was _ he, anyways?

* * *

Otto was late -- terribly late. He knew -- he knew he was.

But knowing did not change the fact, so he ran instead.

He hadn’t been bothered to move faster than a stroll in the past hundred or so years, so moving at such high speeds left him breathless, struggling, and more than once leaning on a lamppost to catch his breath.    
  
When he came to the steps of Arcadia’s Museum of Art and Architecture, he took them two at a time, huffing, puffing, the whole razzmatazz. Otto slowed when he was finally inside the oversized wooden double doors. Staring around, Otto tried to adjust his sight to the darkness, before shutting the door behind him, quiet. He kept the to shadows, keeping his mouth closed, even if he wanted to pant aloud and mouth open like some tired, aging mutt.   
  
Immediately, there was a ruckus, something being dropped, clanging against the floor and loud enough for Otto to grab for his automatic. In the intake of breath, he drew it out, clicked the safety off, and aimed to kill whatever security guard had caught him in the act of breaking and entering.   
  
The two dark masks of a pair of changelings stared up from behind the tall, broken naked statue, caught in the act of picking up spilled hay and stone yellow eyes blinking. There was a moment where they were caught in the gaze of the other before they stood rigid, at attention. They immediately bowed in respect, as tradition commanded. 

“M-Mr. Scarbaach!”   
  
“Silence! Not so loud!” He spat. “And stand straight -- you disgust me.”

“Sorry…” they apologized in sync, lowering their gaze, but straightening as instructed. 

Otto gave a brief roll of his eyes, before tucking the gun back in his long coat, harshening his gaze.   
  
“Is he here?”   
  
“Who?” One peeped.   
  
“You know who.”   
  
“Oh! Y-Yes! He is, Grand Commandant.” The other answered, hands folded together.

Otto couldn’t hide the sideways glance towards the large columns and rays of blue moonlight, matched only by the blue sparkling of magic of the stones fastening together -- at least, some of them, he heard hammers and stone against stone in the near distance as well. 

Manual labor, ugh.

“Alright.” He sighed, pointing them and their recovered box in the direction of the bridge. “Get back to work and out of sight you two. And be careful with those stones, for fucks' sake.”   
  
They nodded and scurried off, a bit too fast for his taste, but, when he turned back at something moving close over his shoulder, he realized why, and felt his back bend in integrated respect.   
  
“ _ Mein Prinz _ …” He greeted the troll, low, bowing a few times over to make up for his lack of acknowledgment. “It is a pleasant sur --.”   
  
**_“You’re late.”_ ** ****__  
  
Otto paused, keeping his head down, eyes boring holes into the floor, a dust bunny by his small toe.   
  
“I --.”   
  
“Did I warn you about being late?”   
  
“Y-You did, sir. You --.”   
  
“Quiet, you mewling whelp.”   
  
Otto, ever the obedient servant, did as he was told, sealing his lips, eyes searching the floor a moment more before the massive bulk of Bular turned to leave, the small, stocky polymorph lifting his head to follow close behind. 

They traveled through the small hallway of the aging building, leading towards the tarp and columns of the covered portion of the displays. Otto took off his small hat, and ducked under the tape and inside, the energy shifted with the presence of magic hanging heavily in the air. He took a moment to look around at the bustling changelings, the closest ones bowing as the Otto returned the repects, albeit stiff and sore. 

He watched and listened to the sound of progress, crackling, blue magic lifting the heavier chunks out of the scattered boxes and containers and into the air, before he realized the stare on the side of his head, and he snapped back from the momentary distraction, at attention.

“Well…?”   
  
“Yes, sir?”   
  
“Do you have it?” Bular growled, holding out his curved claws expectantly, “I trust you do -- given all the time you’ve wasted.”   
  
Otto was quite a moment or two, eyes blinking.   
  
“I…  _ don’t _ , sir…”

Bular started, ember eyes igniting as they bore into his own.

_ “What?” _ __  
  
“I don’t, sir.” He replied, honest, “Human shipments can be finicky, such delays can be expected when traveling such long --.”

There was an exploding pain in his cheek, the polymorph falling backwards against a crate, hands scrambling to catch himself against it but ending up sliding down, backside hitting the ground. He gripped his bright pink face, clutching his stinging cheek, where a claw had gone to backhand him. The side from the recent scuffle with Draal caught the edge of the crate as he had fallen, and it took all his willpower not to scream out in those moments of being slumped, breath hissing through gritted teeth.

“You... _ You…” _ __  
  
“Hit you?” The royal troll asked, low, breathy, “It’s the least you deserve for your incompetence, cockroach.” There was an ugly smile, drool dripping from a hungry maw, “I’d suggest you fetch that Eyestone soon, Grand Commandant -- lest I’d be picking your flesh from my teeth with your bones.” 

Otto couldn’t help an instinctive glare but brought it back to only half of its ferocity at the blurry sight and sound of snarling, rotting teeth. Bular turned away to bark orders and the momentarily frozen changelings broke their gazes away from a fallen Otto, scurrying out of the troll’s reach unless they wanted to be smacked themselves. 

After catching his breath and fully realizing his impaired sight, Otto grabbed hold of the nearby crate and stood to try to find his fallen lenses, but, realized his mistake too late when he felt something give way under his foot, the look of recognition and horror crossing his face.   
  
He dipped down to try to save the poor, crushed lenses, fumbling, quite blindly on the edges, without them.   
  
There were a few moments of quiet desperation, the thought of how he was going to get home and function in his day to day life running through his skull before his lowered nose touched the polished wingtip shoes with a matching blonde suit, the owner staring down, but offering a blurry, five digited hand.   
  
“Need some assistance there, Napoleon?” 

* * *

The walk back home at the path of creeping sun of dawn was quiet, albeit fumbling and awkward and full of tripping for both parties involved.

  
“Step to the left a bit -- there’s dog shit in the road.”   
  
Otto Scarbaach made the most disgusted face he could manage, curling a lip as he narrowly missed the mysterious brown blob on the center of the cracked concrete, stinking up half the block as soon as he passed it. Birds had begun to sing, the dawn gracing the back of their heels now, pinpoints of the rising sun.

“Nevermind -- is it fixed yet?”   
  
“No,” Strickler retorted, in a tired sigh, as if talking to a persistent toddler, “It’s not yet. Again. Give me a moment when we get inside. Just relax -- you’re fine.”   
  
The hand that had been looped through his arm traveled to the small of his back, rubbing gently in a circle before settling on his shoulder, squeezing to lead him along. The touch, foreign, did not ease him, but he didn’t complain for the time being, opting to close his eyes as they walked, seeing them useless without his precious, old as time, glasses.   
  
The rest of the night had been quite unproductive on Otto’s end, and, when Strickler offered coffee and breakfast at his place, (either out of friendship or pity Otto didn’t know), he’d been more than happy to take it up. He’d felt quite useless for the past several hours and had warranted enough embarrassment on himself, bumping and fumbling through straw boxes as best he could, holding the lenses close with the other, like some small child clutching a broken toy. Bular did not bother him again, stalking out halfway through to fetch himself something to settle as for a meal, and for that he was thankful. Another backhand and the polymorph was sure his jaw would’ve shattered like glass.

A few twists and turns lead them through Arcadia’s early morning streets, before there was a sharp poke on Otto’s arm, the polymorph opening his eyes to see the outline of a trio of steps, leading to a wooden door -- Strickler's small, squat, 50s style home.

He followed, carefully stepping up, before they were in, the door locked three times over as Strickler lead the polymorph rest of the way inside. 

Walter Strickler’s home was a warm shade of earth, coffee, and sand. The tones of the shelves, rugs, and coffee tables were warm, shapeless blobs, homey and pleasant as fresh wildflower honey on toast.   
  
After a few steps, Otto settled on the tan blob he found out to be an armchair, shifting uncomfortably as the tall form of Strickler hovered nearby before, moving right out of his clearer vision, towards what he assumed for the moment was a television set. 

Otto tapped his fingers against the armrest impatiently, slumping, eyes squinting and straining.

“Well? Wh --?”   
  
“Jesus Christ,  _ Otto.”  _ Strickler retorted, exasperated, “Give me just a moment. I’ll fix them, don’t worry.”   
  
“Ah -- apologizes. You know how I’m like without my --.”   
  
“Your glasses, I  _ know _ .” The nestmate cut him off again, swaying a bit around the small room before muttering something under his breath and fluttering out of the living room and completely out of sight into the adjoining kitchen. The polymorph followed the familiar shape through the kitchen nook with his small eyes, settling back against the cushions.   
  
“Caesar?”   
  
“Hm?”   
  
“Why does he hate me so?” He asked, quiet, as if they weren’t alone in the very beige home.   
  
“You’re soft.” A voice filtered from the back corner of the kitchen, before coming back in front of him, a small grey round object in one hand, the cracked glasses in the other.    
  
Otto felt his face flush at the sound of duct tape being pulled from the roll.

“I’m not soft.”   
  
“You’re a sponge.”    
  
“Hey.”   
  
“A stress ball.”   
  
_ “Hey.” _ __  
__  
“It’s true.” Strickler grinned, pursing his lip as he pat down the small rolls on his frame.   
  
Otto looked unnerved, pouting a lip, rolling his eyes.    
  
“If you are going insult me --.” He pointed to the kitchen with a stubby, short finger, “at least make me coffee for the show.”

“Coffee for the show later.” Strickler waved off, a smile in his voice. There was a comfortable quietness as he worked, Otto realizing his nestmate had put on a record when they passed the small table coming in, some jazz from the 20s, gentle flute and trumpet of a hidden speakeasy and he listened, soothed.

“You alright, Napoleon?” The familiar voice of Strickler lifted from the coffee table he was sitting on after a handful of minutes, another stretch and cut of the tape interrupting the song.   
  
“Quite.”   
  
“You weren’t the other night.”   
  
Otto felt his face blanch. He’d nearly forgot and felt his hand settle absently over his pocket, gripping the cloth.    
  
“I wasn’t, I will confess. But I am now.”   
  
“Are you sure?” The voice pressed even further, an eyebrow-raising somewhere in the sentence.   
  
_“Quite.”_ Otto replied, curt, final.   
  
There was a bit of silence before a stifled laugh lifted from the man.   
  
“You know you say that a lot?  _ ‘Quite’ _ .” He chuckled, imitating the accent.

“Shut up.” Otto hissed, albeit, with not as much venom as he had hoped, only earning another bout of snorting laughter from the changeling.    
  
The record still spun, and, when the songs switched to the next, there was a pleased noise, and Otto’s eyes opened to the brownish, human shaped blob in front of him.   
  
“ _ Voila!”  _ Walter Strickler grinned, holding out the lenses for Otto to take, before taking Otto’s flailing hand and pressing them into an open palm, seeing how he missed them the first few tries.   
  
Otto, sighing, pressed them onto his face, straightening them as best he could, the frames held together by fate, sweat, and ludicrous amounts of duct-tape.    
  
“Well?”   
  
“They’re  _ scheisse _ …”

The expression on Strickler’s face changed, as clear as day.   
  
“I  _ could _ snap them in half over my knee and put them out of their misery.”

Otto stood, eyes widening, retreating to the kitchen, to make himself that promised mug -- faster than he had in the last hundred years. 

“ _ Nein _ . I stand corrected -- they’re  _ wunderbar _ .”


	8. The Chapter in Which Otto Confronts Goblins and Makes Deals in the Noodle House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> aka -- Otto loses his shit
> 
> thanks sm Lusey for beta reading!
> 
> CW: death and pee

The changeling was dying.

Her breath was coming in little gasps now, sounds of open mouthed gulps for air. Gathering, but never enough to keep. The changelings in the infirmary had stopped packing her wounds via her request and were just hovering -- waiting.

She didn’t have much time left now.

There was a hum in the Janus Order infirmary -- the gathering cluster of workers like buzzing bees, hovering over her -- speaking in changeling tongues, some to each other— some to her, voices soft, offering promises they knew they couldn’t keep.

The sea of freshly packed bodies stuffed in dark polos and slacks parted for one form coming through, starting to bow, but stopping and straightening at a sharp look delivered their way. This was not the time for formalities -- many of them would have time for that later.

Otto Scarbaach approached the cot where the changeling lay -- despite everything, she’d kept her small, pale, human form, blonde hair laying like a halo around her head and sticking to where sweat rolled down her face, some falling into her gasping, open mouth. Gently, he bent and pulled the strands away from her forehead and mouth, holding the locks between his fingers. This caught her attention and she opened her eyes as she tried to sit up to greet him, but found she couldn’t move much of anything anymore, a look of shame on her face as she coughed towards him, unladylike. Otto placed a hand on her small shoulder and shook his head in reassurance, shushing her as he eased her back down against the bunched pillows.

Grasping his hand, her voice trembled weakly in a request and Otto had to lean close to hear it, careful not to touch where her shirt had been ripped violently open in shreds, abdomen stained a scarlet red.

He sharply relayed the request to the nearest member -- and they returned a bit later with a chalice filled to the brim with dark red wine. Otto tipped the golden cup to her lips and she sucked greedily until she couldn’t anymore, coughing and wincing. Otto placed the cup aside when he saw her choke and patted her back and shoulder to help ease the discomfort. She shook her head, trying to get some of her pride back, a playful smirk on her lips as her wrapped chest swelled.

“Q-Quite alright C-Commandant… It’s the best wine… I’ve ever tasted… I’d be glad to choke…  finally… on the fruits… of…”

She fell silent.

The room of changelings fell silent.

Otto, still holding that hand that held his, reached his spare to close her grey eyes. He set it on her red chest, stood up and stepped back -- staring at the body of the changeling that had been run through with a sword, laying on that stretcher, a wistfully smirk smile still on her face.

“How long?”

“Nomura found her early this morning -- we’ve gotten cleanup and --.”

“ _NO_.” Otto spat, in his direction, “How long?”

“A year till retirement, sir. Her fleshbag guise been selling wine for years, sir -- but she’s never tasted a single drop. She was saving it for…her -- um… retirement.” 

Otto, frowning down at her a moment more, turned to leave, the chalice in hand, still full of wine -- barely a sip taken, for most of it had spilled and mixed on her front. For a moment, Otto saw the face of Stricklander staring after him through the crowd, but kept his eyes from meeting his, not wanting his empathy for his duty and position which he’d fought to achieve. The polymorph didn’t need to command to tell them what to do with the fleshbag-bound body -- they had been doing it for years now. Returning the ashes to the wind -- finally free.

Otto Scarbaach shut the main door to the men’s bathroom and locked the deadbolt to the wooden door quickly behind him. He set the chalice atop the small makeshift tile shelf that was the indention to insert a mirror and turned on the tap, letting the water come gushing out the squeaking faucet. He simply held his hands under the flowing water, watching the scarlet swirl so gracefully, and attempting to wash the spilled drops of wine from his sleeve. He glanced up at the reflection, spotting the golden cup, something more red than the wine on the lip, dripping inside the dark drink and onto the white countertop.

He wiped it away roughly with the palm of his hand, before shoving the whole cup into the squat, small sink, the sudden movement sending the mix of wine and water and blood sloshing over the sides, landing on the floor and over his shoes, staining everything it touched.

And still, Otto Scarbaach didn’t cry.

He was a changeling -- changelings didn’t mourn the ones they’d never known.

* * *

It had been a rather uneventful week leading up to that morning, vocab books and reading reports and remembering to check the cursed “eeee-mail” with more than a heart racing _ding!_ to turn out to be only a coupon for Bed, Bath, and Beyond.

Otto’s morning had been the worse way to awaken, but the mundane life of his fleshbag cover had made up for it, giving him time to practice what he wanted to say -- everything he’d throw and screech and shout -- and seethed in the euphoria and anticipation of releasing his anger and firmness towards the person he wanted to so desperately.

He was no fool at who was responsible for yet another loss in their small, sparse group.

The bell rang for lunch and Otto ushered the teens out of his room and to the cafeteria, where a roar of boisterous noise could be heard doors down. Flinching at it, he opted out for the Teacher’s Lounge, carrying an empty cup of what was once filled with coffee hanging loosely in his hand. The door swung shut and Otto looked up to be met by a chest and neck, continuing up to see the face of Senor Uhl -- surprised at bumping into each other at the door.

“Oop! Apologizes…” The mountain of blonde hair muttered, staring at the man that he hadn’t met yet, a bit confused, “I do not believe I have seen you before. Who are you?” Uhl asked, tone almost accusatory.

“Otto Scarbaach.” The polymorph introduced, wanting to clear the air of any possible conflict, holding out a pockmarked hand, “I’m the new English teacher.”

After a moment of processing, Uhl took the small hand in his dainty own -- his face not betraying any embarrassment of his overcautious and firm state.

“Ah --- yes. I’ve heard many things about you from Strickler. He talks much about you -- even before you came -- but good things, of course.” Uhl finished, letting go of the hand, “I heard you are strict with you teaching -- keep the kids in line.”

“Indeed, I am.”

“ _Gut_. We need more structure around here sometimes -- the two boys -- Jim and Tobias --.” 

Otto sighed through his nose, “Say no more -- I know what they are like. They are my new neighbors…”

An expression Otto couldn’t read crossed Uhls face as he continued his path to the door -- not wanting to be late to his class.

“Then I have one thing to say about those two…” Uhl muttered, a bit sympathetically, as he began to exit and close the door, “May your suffering be short and may God have mercy on your soul.”

Then, with a clang, it shut, and the only sound could be heard was the cracking of the mug as it it the floor, Otto’s mouth hanging open.

* * *

The day came and went and the night crept in like spilled ink, the dawn obscured by the dark of the spilled cosmos -- small sparks of light finding their way through the low hanging clouds of the evening.

It was his night off -- thanks to Strickler's big mouth. He’d had to have told Nomura with one of their modern devices what all had happened the night before and during that early morning check in. He’d been given the phone and charger in passing in the hallway of Arcadia, and, carefully, after letting it sit in his palm, he flipped it open, staring at the illuminated screen and at the unread message in his inbox.

 **_Walt:_ ** _Coffee?_

No time -- no date -- so very clear, Walt. How cute -- his big brother was taking the role again -- worried about him -- look at that message.

He rolled his eyes and began to fumble with the clicking keys.

 **_Otto:_ ** _Sure, alright -- tomorrow after my classes then._

 **_Walt:_ ** _Did you get Nomura’s message earlier?_

 **_Otto:_ ** _I did -- you two didn’t have to do that._

 **_Walt:_ ** _It’s alright -- she got and signed off for her delivery -- she was managing unpacking tonight anyway -- I’m tomorrow -- look out for your late one soon -- you’re on duty then. Tonight you can take a rest._

Otto’s fingers hovered, the itching feeling of guilt of his most recent lie scratching his throat before his phone dinged again, staring at the screen, blinking a bit.

 **_Walt:_ ** _You don’t have to be okay, you know._

Another beat, his face flushed, before he typed.

 **_Otto:_ ** _I am Grand Commandant, same as you, witnessing events like this morning comes with my job._

Pausing -- again.

 **_Otto:_ ** _And I am fine._

He shut the phone with a snap before he could see Walter’s reply, shoving his phone in his pocket, legs still swinging over the side of the Bridge, staring between his feet, the space between his feet and cement far below.

Waiting for the two trolls, form outlined in the pale eye of moonlight -- he found he was just on time as six eye broke through underneath the bridge -- a soft fog blurring the image. He swung his legs back over to his side of the Bridge, heading down the steep slope -- taking on a new face, one of a nervous fleshbag learning to be the Trollhunter.

At least some of his guise spoke the truth.

* * *

“Are we there yet? Why are we walking?”

“With our _friend_ occupying the ring -- I believe an alternative is in our cards of favor.” Blinky spoke, leading Otto along the empty canal, carefully stepping over a gathering of flotsam in the path -- his ears pricked to the passing wind. “And, in my travels this early evening, I believe I have found a good solution.”

Otto opened his mouth to ask why before Blinky began to tug him along and up the steep slope, a sudden left, something catching his attention. The man followed, feeling the iron grip of Blinky on his sleeve, and Arrrgh gently nosing him from behind, the wet nose hitting the back of his neck and the small of his back, supporting him up. He waved his hand behind him to urge him to stop once they made it to the top -- he could take care of himself -- thank you very much, and didn’t need a pair of parent figures to help him along like he was learning to walk.

A few steps into the woods and Blinky stopped, releasing his hand, thank God, and turning to face him, holding up a finger to silence any possible protest.

“Listen, Master Otto. Listen close…”

“Are you going to tell me to close my eyes?”

“Why, of course…”

A sigh through his nose, but Otto obliged, closing his eyes, but remained tense, listening close to the night. A frog burped, a raccoon chattered, a loon called, lonely, a pair of hands were resting on his --

“Wait!” Otto’s eyes shot open, the shoulders being touched tensing in the moonlight, taking a step back, running into a quiet Arrrgh. “ _What_ are you doing?”

“You are acting too tense, Master Otto. I was simply adjusting your shoulder down, a bit less bunched up from your neck.”

“Warn me next time, oh _Mein Gott._..”

“My apologies, I didn't mean to frighten you -- wrong of me to assume the belief of humans and their acclimation to touch would all be the same -- that, and trolls can be quite quiet.”

Otto was quiet as he rubbed his arm, feeling a few of Blinky’s eyes still looking at him, as if scrying into his soul.

**_“What?”_ **

“You are troubled…”

“What if I am? Does it matter?”

“A clear head gives way to another dawn -- holding it in does no one any good.” The troll paused, “What troubles you, Master Scarbaach?”

Otto paused, trying to figure out a good consistent story to tell, one of many he’d have to remember.

“A distant friend died today.” He spoke, both a lie and a truth, “I did not know much of her -- but it rubbed me the wrong way.”

Blinky nodded, gentle, fatherly, as he did.

“I see…”

“But I am fine -- it was just very unexpected this morning -- threw me on a loop for my teaching today.”

“English, yes?”

“That is correct.”

 Blinky bore his tusks in a small smile, trying to be reassuring.

“A noble profession -- you must be good with children -- now --.” He held up his hands, showing him nothing in them, no knife to stick through his back, but holding no pressure or force, “May we try again?”

Otto took a breath, a moment to gather himself again -- he was not some upset crying whelp and he nodded, sighing gently.

A pair of hands on his shoulders again once Blinky was a bit behind, guiding him forward and into a small clearing -- and this time he kept still, closing his eyes after they had come to a complete stop.

He listened, letting his breathing come to a less panicked state, something gentle as he could manage and the soft squeeze affirmed he was fine -- he was doing just fine.

Then, he heard it, a distant scrabbling, something a touch metallic, but mostly something scratching, like a cat to a scratching post.

Otto turned his head in the direction of the sound, silently indicating its presence, and he practically felt the beams of Blinky and Arrrghs smile, disgustingly sweet.

“Very good!”

“Yeah, sure. What is it?” He asked, opening his eyes, realizing his haphazard glasses were slipping off his nose, carefully pushing them back up his nose.

“Goblins, Master Otto -- those are the sound of goblins.”

There was a pregnant pause, Otto’s face draining of color, and idea of what he had to do forming in his skull.

“Goblins?” he asked, in feigned disbelief, as if the little creatures were an unheard phenomenon.

“Yes, goblins. Small, beady eyed creatures that are signs of activity of the Darklands and shadows.”

“Darklands?”

Blinky patted his shoulder, “My my, we have a lot to catch up on -- now --!” He gestured towards the small weight in his breast pocket.

Otto covered it with a hand as it illuminated, hiding the light feebly. He stared at the pointed finger, the glowing, pulsating Amulet, the human hand hovering over his heart as he breathed in.

“What… What do you need me to do?”

* * *

The clanging of metal against stone rung out over the storage complex and the poor, defenseless chain length fence didn’t stand a chance against a slice of Daylight, an Otto sized opening made just for him. He stepped over the threshold, checking for cameras and any possible security dogs inside before remembering who he’d been seeking. They would never pick a place with cameras -- a shitty non-climate controlled storage cabinet had to do. The Amulet clicked as he sheathed the sword back on his back, held there by Deya only knew what.

He picked his way along, ducking and shuffling and keeping to the shadows, instinctively covering the Amulet when a flash of movement could be seen crawling over small empty boxes, a crate of empty glass bottles rattling with the light weight. Cast in the inescapable edge of a low hanging lamplight -- Otto watched as the door to storage unit 33B rattled close with a metallic clang.

_“This is you first mission, Master Otto. Always be afraid…”_

Breathing in, feeling the air enter his lungs, he stepped out from his hiding, steeling his stone, his gut and blood and heart like iron -- biting, burning cold.

He took hold of that metal door, the steel crunching under his fist, as he forced the door up, the muffled chatter coming to an abrupt halt as all the bodies in the unit turned.

Common Lower Goblins, green slimy skin, flesh like a frog, tooth and fangs and patches of hair -- exactly how he remembered them in the Darklands, scuttling and sniffing and speaking amongst each other.

There was a long pause before one goblin of the horde chirped, stepping forward from the mass of pressed goblin bodies, smelling the approaching changelings’ scent, person unfamiliar but, something familiar in the world of flesh bags. Otto took a half step back and their eyes glinted in the armor from head to toe, the creatures taking pause very suddenly and all at once, as if a unit, just realizing what said changeling was wearing.

Fragwa made a tentative step back from the Grand Commandant and his newfound attire, ears twitching in visible confusion, sniffing, mouth open in a muted snarl.

“Waka Chaka?” He asked in a hiss, eyebrows tightening, eyes narrowing.

Otto, sighing through his nose, staring down at the two dozen green goblins gathered on the floor of the storage container, reached and pulled the door down and closed, plunging them in stuffy, suffocating darkness.

The sword materialized in his hands, casting them all in an intense blue light, the glowing electricity of magic sparking from his fingers.

He was a Trollhunter -- Blinky was counting on him -- depending to protect the public.

But, Otto Scarbaach was a changeling — there could be no witnesses.

“I shall send you flowers...”

Then, with shaking hands, he raised the sword over his head.

* * *

The night was silent now, too quiet, as Otto found himself at the edge of the bridge again. This time, his companion was the rain, which rolled off his shoulders in small, harmless beads. He wiped the remainants from his sword, the already sticky and filthy rag he’d found on the ground doing no help to hide the evidence of what he’d done.

He didn’t know if all Trollhunters felt the way he felt -- and he didn’t care.

Otto Scarbaach did not feel like a hero.

He wasn’t sure if heroes ever felt like heroes -- or anything special at all. Perhaps they felt normal -- as if he’d ever known that before.

Perhaps they felt like a monster -- he was a bit too familiar with that one.

But what was done was done -- for the Glory of Merlin, Trollkind, and whoever else claimed to hold the chain attached to his neck.

He frowned in a soft pout, looking at the brief glance of cracked glass lenses through the streaked gore, before huffing, impatient, checking at the watch somehow still visible through the armor.

Damn -- now he must know how they fe -- .

 **_“DIE_ ** SPY SCUM!”

If the voice, so hauntingly recognizable and so shrill, wasn’t the reason Otto fell over the edge of the Bridge, the 50,000 volts coursing through his body did the trick, a snarling cry escaping his mouth as he dropped the sword, his body clenching before falling off to the side, rolling.

Scrambling, he recovered faster than he thought possible, grasping a hold of the safety bars, dangling, quite precariously over the edge. He heard the sword split the concrete below, glancing down as the blade disintegrated in a blue flash, before shooting back up catching a glance of a recharging taser pointed towards his head.

“Wait!” Otto cried out, snarling up, eyes narrowing, glasses knocked askew. “Jim?! Tobias?!”

Indeed, his worst nightmare, the last person he’d wished to see, was staring him down the barrel of a taser gun, one in each hand, as if both of them armed could destroy all evil in the wretched world, expressions firm. That is, if expressions could be firm, it was hard to tell with their soft fleshbag faces shoved into a panty hose leg, the rest of the women’s garment hanging like some sad, ponytail.

“Dammit Jim!” Tobias cursed from behind his panty hose covered face, frown smushed in the leggings, “I knew that wouldn’t work!”

Otto felt the boiling rage rise up in his chest, meeting his eyes.

“What the HELL are you doing?! Are you trying to kill me?!”

“S-Shut up!” Jim squeaked, nearly gasping at the nerve of himself, “We know who you are!”

“Do you now?” He asked in a cool tone, despite his predicament, grabbing for the other bar in a metallic clang of the armor, a clawing worry at the back of his neck.

“Yeah!” Toby spat, pulling off the hose, tossing it aside, “You’re a government spy!”

There was a beat of silence, a pin could be heard, before a boisterous, mad sounding laugh broke the silence of the night, the body of Otto Scarbaach pulling itself up, over the rail before tumbling down in a heap, still cackling to himself.

The tazers in the boys’ hands lowered a notch, the pair looking at each other, looking at the man, back at each other, before their faces grew a delicate shade of pink -- mouths opening and closing.

“What’s so funny?” Tobias asked, seething, but in a squeak, the fire killed by the bucket that was Otto’s light, airy laughter.

“You are!” He chuckled, snickering, face full of teasing without holding back, lip curled. He wasn’t sure if it was just them -- perhaps it was everything leading up to them -- he wasn’t sure -- it was fuzzy -- God, he was tired.

“W-We saw you! At the ancient business! Travel agency! We saw the platform go down!”

Otto started catching his breath then, everything from his head to his toes aching as he grabbed a hold of the railing, trying to get up again.

The boys aimed the stolen tasers at him again, a silent warning, and Otto stayed still, slowly bringing up a hand.

“Boys…” he spoke, tone dry and firm as nails, “I will not hurt you. Put them down.”

“No!” Jim spoke up, stepping forward a bit, a touch more brave, “T-Tell us! Tell us what you are! Right now!”

Otto seethed, growled a bit in defiance as he rose to his feet, looking down on the very frightened teens, who blinked up at him expectantly.

The polymorph was stuck between a rock and a much harder place -- teenage stubbornness -- so much unlike his own.

Then, he got an idea -- a wonderfully terrible idea. The armor faded in a flash of blue light as he leaned forward, smirking, placing a very human hand on one of their shoulders, shaking it.

“Name your junk food -- I’ll pay your price for silence.”

* * *

The place was empty, as was foretold by the prophets of two slurping and chewing teens, suckling hungrily at thier lo mein and dumplings, as if they’d never eaten in their entire lives.

Otto couldn’t help but stare a bit when they dug in, a single noodle poised between chopsticks before he used said utensil to smack the tops of their hands, hissing at them.

“Manners! Were you born in a zoo?”

“Quick question: were you born into your position? Like – is there an institution somewhere – a spy school?”

Otto sighed through his nose, shooting back a heated glare, stronger now, now that his life wasn’t on the line.

“I am not a spy nor ever will be one – Now eat your food -- stop behaving like a child!”

The pair ducked their heads and did as they were told, slurping a bit less loudly now, lest they catch the stray waitress and cooks attention, both staring at their phones.

 _Happy Dragons’ Noodle House_ wasn’t far from the edge of downtown, just what Otto wanted to see, seeing how his ability to move was further from exclamatory and, thankfully, was one of the few things in this godforsaken town that was open 24 hours. They’d shuffled in, named their choice of drink, mostly soda and a coffee, and sat down to wait for their meal, the cute smiling dragon staring at the polymorph from all sides, sure to rip his throat out at any given moment.

Otto made a disgusted noise at the salt and pepper shakers, the rosy-cheeked creatures giving him nothing but the urge to vomit. Was nothing sacred these days?

“Hey…” Jim protested, pulling the pair of kissy, magnetic dragons towards him, before using the contents inside, “they’re cute… and in love...”

“They’re disgusting…”

“That’s what you think…” Tobias muttered behind his wall of noodles, slurping silently and without fuss when an elbow found his gut, poking in the ribs.

Jim turned back to Otto, a bit of soy sauce at the edge of his mouth.

“So...” Jim inquired, lifting an eyebrow, “not a spy?”

_“Nien.”_

“And not a Nazi?”

Otto gave a not-so-amused chuckle and leaned forward on his knuckles.

“I’d rather be **dead.”**

The seriousness in his tone prompted a look back and forward from Jim and Toby, but nothing more.

“What are you then?”

Otto sighed through his nose, setting the prepackaged chopsticks aside on the paper sleeve, and began.

It was one of the greatest shitshows he’d ever told.

He kept it bare bones, believable, something he’d be proud of for years to come. A humble teacher from Germany, coming to the US of A, finding a magical Amulet that spoke, Trolls, Trollmarkets existence, things of the sort.

“Two of my friends, trolls, were going to meet me after my first mission – they did not show – perhaps they got caught up somewhere – or are already home – at this close to dawn.”

“First mission?”

“Hunting -- I was hunting goblins. Terrible beasts…” He felt dirty saying that, but kept his cover -- guises -- he had to remember guises.

There was an awestruck silence, the boys stared at the other, a habit it seemed, some sort of code, Otto didn’t know.

“We want in!” Toby nearly leapt from the spot, “I mean -- ! How cool is that! Defending the world from evil! We could even be superheroes of Arcadia, and no one would know it!”

Otto blinked, grabbing his wrist to pull him back down.

“You’re not serious…” Otto spoke, eyebrows furrowing, “Tell me you’re joking.”

“Why would we be?”

“You are stupid, incredibly so. I cannot believe --! I --! Do you know _why_ I told you these things? So you’d stop pestering me and leave me alone!”

The excited features faltered a bit, “There’s… only one? What about us? We can help!”

“Absolutely _not_.”

“Come on! We -- We can be your apprentices! You -- You can be our ticket to -- !”

“ _Enough_ \-- we are done talking.”

There was a stunned silence, Otto sat back down from where he’d stood from his seat to quiet them, firey and smothering. Tobias returned the look, chopstick shoved on the table.

“I’m part of yearbook committee.”

“I’m sorry -- wha -- ?”

“I will publish everything you’ve told me -- us -- unless we get to help you.” His face grew to one of silent pleading, “This is our ticket to fame! If not here, perhaps we can make -- !”

A fist slammed against the table, causing the whole thing to rattle, the couple stirred violently, Jim holding them protectively close.

“That is **_quite_ ** enough from you, Tobias Domzalski.”

“It’s Tobias Domzalski Lake -- in case you ever gave a fu--.”

The knife on the table flashed up, poised at the boy, instinctive, precise. Otto didn’t hold it close, but, it was in his direction, and, in that moment, Tobias’ face grew horrified, staring at the tip, before up at Otto, eyes wide.

There was a stillness in the air as noone at the table breathed, the only sounds being the retro turntable in the corner, some muffled song playing from the speaker that wasn’t blown out. Realising his behavior, what he was doing, who he was doing it towards, Otto stopped, slowly lowering his culinary tool to the table, along with himself.

There was several seconds of stilled silence. The light on the wall flashed four AM, the dawn was creeping, slow.

“Alright.” Otto spoke, voice as calm and collected as a spring wind. “You shall have your time in the Sun -- expect me to come by tomorrow night -- I will bring you to Trollmarket -- let you see -- but only under the pretenses you will never speak a word of it -- no more threatening me here -- it does not make you tougher than you believe -- _are we clear?”_

The pair of rounded eyed faces nodded carefully, hearing him quite clearly now.

There was another sigh from the man, before he stood, the scaping of his chair against the tile making them jump a bit in surprise.

Otto tossed a five dollar bill their way, humming.

“There -- take that -- leave it as a tip. Eat up little Trollhunters,” He finished, unceremoniously, heading for the door before either could protest, the bell announcing his leave out of the squat shop and straight into downtown. “Your food is getting cold.”

* * *

Anything to avoid either party, Otto found quite peaceful, and sitting alone, on a park bench, at 4:30 in the morning, seemed like a prime example. More than one glance had proved neither had followed him, thank God, and the silence was all the more sweeter as he sat, reeling, recovering, from that morning, afternoon, and evening. More than what he usually handled, he confessed, but it all came with the job.

Yep… all with the job…

He opened his eyes at the distant sound of thunder, the storm moving on from the downtown slopes of Arcadia and past the overlooking hills and mountains, as if the day was shooing them out themselves with a broom. It was a funny image -- one to imagine -- but it didn’t last long, as a sound filtered through an open window far far behind him, in the Museum, still quiet and still from the night.

Otto took pause at that, checking his clock out of instinct, before rising to his feet.

That was the Bridge ward -- no one was supposed to be in there at that time -- the grace period -- where guards were switched and a window to allow changelings to make haste -- back to whatever hole they called their home.

The noise of a yelp had Otto up and peaked, eyes and ears pricked at the sound, hand going for the automatic in his pocket, but paused at the climb, looking around a moment to make sure he was alone, before leaping up, much further than a human should be able to achieve.

Scrabbling momentarily at the edge and pushing the rigged panel to make it wider, Otto squeezed himself in, nearly knocking over a display of armor as he rolled to the floor, but recovered in a snap, head turned and ears sharp at a pleading voice, something soft, and fearful.

He crept along the shadows -- knowing well this was not the time or place -- he shouldn’t be here at this hour.

But, neither should they -- whoever the buzzing pack was, filtering even from the hallway.

Then, ducking behind a pillar, ready to kill whatever human had fumbled and found a changeling or two trying to sneak out last minute, he risked a glance around, and stared through the hanging, construction tarp.

A group of changelings, half a dozen, maybe less and Bular, the Destroyer, were pushing back and forth a small, cowering changeling.

Pushing, Otto realized after another contact with skin, back and forward with swift punches, the head snapping, the changeling fumbling, trying to escape the ring that had formed around him, but being shoved back into the middle, where the brute awaited to give him an almighty twhack with a paw.

Broken beer bottles, spilled wine, and a dropped, small crate had indicated the crime of the tall, thin changeling, despite his weak protests, apologizes and the like, for ruining what was supposed to be a rendezvous party, something to drink before they left for their miserable day.

Upon the second strike of a new round, he was down, spitting a bit of blood from his nose out of his mouth, the stone toughness of his trollish counterpart still present but growing weaker, cracking under the pressure.

“Please…” he murmured, as Bular pulled him back to his feet by twisting his arm, holding longer and tighter than before around his wrist, preventing him from running away,  “Please I -- I...”

There was a beat of a shocked silence shared in the room. Something had happened Otto reasoned hiding behind that pilar, before he jumped at the sound Bular’s booming, cackling laugh breaking the air. Otto turned back from putting his gun away and spotted as a clawed hand pointed towards the man’s khaki britches, the Prince throwing his head back as he did so.

Otto, blinking in momentary confusion, stared from across the way to see that the changeling, had, quite abruptly and unexpectedly, peed himself in fear and submission, a look of horror crossing the young man’s face at his realisation of the source of his now wet pants.

The thin changeling hunched and hid his face in his hands as the laughter echoed, the supporters of the brute ringing up in retaliation as well, as he stood with a puddle slowly forming around his ankles, face burning red in human shame.

The sounds of his whimpering chesty sobs had Otto walking out of the shadows at a brisk pace, shoving a laughing changeling of the ring aside to make room, the figure choking on a dead laugh. Stepping forward, Otto placed a hand on the man’s shoulder, making him jump, before stepping between the boy and the brute, staring up with a scowl. Bular didn’t feel the heat of it and didn’t care, poking Otto’s shoulder roughly with then end of his claw, mouth open in what was sure to be a remark asking if he’d done the same thing his age -- seeing he was a coward defending coward.

Otto’s hand snapped up in a flash, gripping the leather bound around Bular’s wrist and tugged it down in a snap, making the troll take a half-step forward. The room fell silent, and Bular was quieted and shocked for a moment at the insubordination, but it was enough for Otto to speak.

“May I remind you who is prime manager to the safe delivery of these packages -- not you, not Stricklander, not this boy -- **_ME._ ** How difficult you think it would be for me to make it all stop and take pause for another few hundred years?” He hissed, knowing that these promised things coming true would mean his death through Bular’s burning rage -- but self-preservation was the last thing on his mind -- he was just pissed, “I will not stop the delivery of this operation -- I am not a turncoat and we’ve waited too long for this opportunity -- but, I will pause **_all_ ** operations to this project unless you stop acting like a child.” He let go of the wrist, shooting a white hot glare around him, “Is this how you act when I’m gone? Disgraceful! -- fucking disgraceful! -- I’ve never had the displeasure to work with changelings as unprofessional as you in my entire life! I promise you, by the wrath of Pale Lady, I will send you _all_ to shovel Nylogroph manure in the deepest, coldest damned corners of the Darklands if I catch you doing this inefficient _Scheisse_ again! And **_you_ ** \-- !” He turned back to Bular, who blinked at the finger shoved in his direction,  “Don’t think I forget what you’ve done this morning -- keep your claws and your sword to yourself for this rest of this mission! We need all the help we can get -- any more ‘accidents’ and you will have no one left to build your Bridge and you can forget about ever seeing your Daddy again!”

He hefted the boy to stand a bit straighter, leading him along as they parted quickly for the sniffling, still sobbing changeling, and the fuming, done with the week -- the day -- the year -- Grand Commandant. 

“Clean that up! And get yourselves out of here!” He barked at the nearest member, the changeling jumping five feet back, “You shall hear from me in the late morning! Expect to buy gloves -- lest you get your precious shit-stained hands dirty!”

Through the hallway and the door and the pair was out in the open, the boy wiping his eyes, legs weak -- knees shaking.

“Please, sir. I’m sorry, sir. I-I didn’t mean to, s-sir. I -- .”

“Hush.” He commanded, not gentle, but not cruel, helping the man along, “That’s enough whimpering -- quiet yourself.”

The man did as he was told, walking awkwardly with his wet pants, too embarrassed to look anywhere near his feet. Otto saved him from further humiliation by avoiding his gaze or a look, staring forward instead, tightening his grip when he felt the other get a bit heavy in his arm.

With the brisk, seething pace, it didn’t take long to get to his home, the door opening after Otto fumbled with the keys, helping the man up the stairs before uncermously shoving him into a shower, still dressed, the lukewarm water spraying over his head.

“Clean yourself up -- there’s a towel there -- I will bring you something else to wear.”

There was silence as he turned away and out the door to give the changeling privacy and save himself from more embarrassment of playing nurse. Picking his way across the hallway, he found himself on his knees, grabbing a pair of trousers and an aging Arcadia Oaks High tee three times too big for the smaller unexpected guest but would have to do. He knocked, hearing the water still flowing, opened the door a crack, placed the folded clothes on the floor, before closing the door again with a sigh.

He slid down the wall to sit by the door -- rubbing his nose where a goblin had clipped him earlier, a small cut, but thankfully wasn’t bleeding. After a small check on the visible parts, he came back to be aware and realized how quiet it was, knocking before peeking in, to check.

“You alright?” He asked, before realising he was talking to an empty room, the clothes gone and the bathroom window wide open, chilled early morning air rustling the silky white curtains. Otto rushed quickly to the window to look down, grateful there wasn’t a pile of rubble at the bottom, the scent of the unfamiliar changeling fading fast where he’d slipped out quietly, the recent rain washing away anything tangible.

A weight settled in his chest as he shut the window,

_What the fuck had he done?_

He had every right to be upset -- unprofessional -- inefficient. But there was still an unspoken hierarchy -- Bular was on top -- he had snapped, shouted, pointed fingers.

He would pay for it later -- he knew -- just as certain as his soul would burn to a nice crisp in Hell -- if he was lucky, perhaps only minimally for both counts.

Climbing out of standing in the empty tub, he made his way to the sink, twisting the faucet on, gathering a handful of cold water to splash on his face. Gathering and scrubbing, trying to get rid of the dirt resting beneath his skin, something deeper he couldn’t reach, dirty water swirling, spilling, tugging a few drops of the wine stuck to his cuff.

He coughed and brought his head back up a few moments, breathing harshly to catch his breath, blinking away the dripping water from his eyes. Otto stared at the oval reflection, eyes seething back, broken glasses, a bruise hidden by facial hair, a cut on his nose from a claw, everything he saw, he stared at in a silent awe, as if for the first time.

The towel on the rack was pulled off with a much gentler force, absently, by his left hand, and he felt the fire in his blood smother to a less dangerous flame as he wiped his face and patted it dry. It was something warm, lingering, alive enough to be rekindled again.

The polymorph tossed last glance to the closed window at the breaking dawn before he was out of the washroom, heading to his room to change for the day, unfurling the tie that had wrapped around his throat, other hand fumbling with the button around his waist.

Things were going to change.

He turned a bit in his tall reflection.

And he guessed the best way was to start with himself.


End file.
